Itt 


VICTORY 


BY 


MRJGIORGIE  SH 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


By  MRS.  6EOR6IE  SHELDON. 


Geoffrey's  Victory; 

OR, 

THE  DOUBLE   DECEPTION. 


BY 


MRS.  G-EOBG-IE  SHELDON, 

AUTHOB  OP 
"STELLA  ROSEVELT,"  "TlNA,"    "EDRIE's  LEGACY,"   "WlTCH  HAZEL," 

"MAX,"   "RUBY'S  REWARD,"   "VIRGIE'S  INHERITANCE," 
"Two  KEYS,"  "THRICE  WEDDED,"  "A  TRUE 
ARISTOCRAT,"  "TRIXY,"  "THAT 
DOWDY,"  "SIBYL'S  IN 
FLUENCE,"  ETC. 


NEW    YORK: 

STREET  &  SMITH,  Publishers, 

1      81  Fulton  Street. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Con  press,  in  the  year  1888, 

Br  STKEKT  &  SMITH, 
Jntbe  Office  of  the  Librariau  of  Congress,  at  WaHkiiigton,  D.  CL 


GEOFFREY'S  VICTORY. 


CHAPTER  I. 

A  STRANGE   ADVENTURE. " 

It  was  a  beautiful  winter  night.  The  sky  was  brilliant 
with  millions  of  beautiful  stars  that  glowed  and  scintil 
lated  as  if  conscious  that  their  light  had  never  before 
penetrated  an  atmosphere  so  rarefied  and  pure.  The 
earth  was  covered  with  a  glaring  coat  of  ice  above  newly 
fallen  snow. 

Trees  and  shrubs  bent  low  and  gracefully  beneath 
the  weight  of  icy  jewels  which  adorned  every  twig  and 
branch. 

Every  roof  and  spire,  chimney  and  turret,  gleamed  like 
frosted  silver  beneath  the  star-lit  heavens,  while  the  over 
hanging  eaves  below  were -fringed  with  myriads  of  glis 
tening  points  that  seemed  like  pendulous  diamonds,  catch 
ing  and  refracting  every  ray  of  light  from  the  glittering 
vault  above  and  the  gas-lit  streets  beneath. 

But  it  was  a  night,  too,  of  intense  cold.  Never  within 
the  remembrance  of  its  oldest  inhabitant  had  the  mercury 
fallen  so  low  in  the  city  of  Boston,  as  on  this  nineteenth 
of  January,  185 — . 

So  severe  was  the  weather  that  nearly  every  street  was 
deserted  at  an  early  hour  of  the  evening;  scarcely  a 
pedestrian  was  to  be  soen  at  nine  o'clock,  and  the  bril 
liantly  lighted  thoroughfares  had  a  lonely  and  desolate 
appearance  without  thnir  accustomed  flow  of  life  and 
humanity.  The  luckless  policemen,  who  alone  paraded 


6  A  STRANGE  ADVENTURE, 

the  slippery  sidewalks  on  their  round  of  duty,  would  nowr 
and  then  slink  into  sheltered  nooks  and  door-ways  for  a 
brief  respite  Irom.  the  stinging,  frosty  air,  where  they 
would  vainly  strive  to  excite  a  better  circulation  by  the 
active  swinging  of  arms  and  the  vigorous  stamping  of 
feet. 

Even  the  horse-cars  and  omnibuses  were  scantily  pa 
tronized,  while  the  poor  drivers,  mutfled  to  their  eye 
brows  in  fur  coats  and  comforters,  seemed  like  dark, 
grim  specters,  devoid  of  life  and  motion,  save  for  the 
breath  that  issued  from  their  mouths  and  nostrils,  and, 
congealing,  formed  iu  frozen  globules  among  their 
beards. 

At  ten  o'clock  on  this  bitter  night,  Thomas  Turner,  M. 
D.,  was  arranging  his  office  preparatory  to  retiring,  and 
feeling  profoundly  thankful  that  he  had  no  patients  who 
demanded  his  attention,  and  believing,  too,  that  no  ona 
would  venture  forth  to  call  him,  when,  to  his  annoyance 
and  dismay,  his  bell  suddenly  rang  a  clanging  and  im 
perative  peal. 

With  a  shiver  of  dread  at  the  thought  of  having  to 
leave  the  warmth  and  comfort  of  his  home,  to  face  the 
fearful  cold,  yet  Avith  a  premonition  that  the  summons 
would  result  in  something  out  of  the  ordinary  course  of 
events,  he  laid  down  the  case  of  instruments  that  he  had 
been  carefully  arranging,  and  went  to  answer  the  call. 

He  found  a  lad  of  perhaps  fifteen  years  standing  outside 
the  door. 

Without  a  word  he  thrust  a  card  into  the  physician's 
hand. 

"Come  in,  boy  !  come  in,"  said  the  doctor,  pitying  the 
poor  fellow,  whose  teeth  were  chattering  at  such  a  rate  it 
was  doubtful  whether  he  could  have  spoken  if  he  wished.. 

He  obeyed  the  invitation  with  alacrity,  however,  and 
made  directly  for  the  radiator,  toward  which  Dr.  Turner 
pointed,  telling  him  to  "go  and  warm  himself." 

The  physician  then  stepped  beneath  the  hall  light  to 
examine  the  card  he  had  received. 

It  proved  to  be  the  business  card  of  a  first-class,  though 
small,  hotel  in  the  city,  and  on  the  blank  side  of  it  there 
had  been  hastily  written  these  words  : 

"Come  at  once  to   the House.     An  urgent   case  demands  your 

immediate  attention.  A.  FAYSON,  Clerk." 

Dr.  Turner  frowned,  and  hung  his  head  in  thought  for 
a  moment. 


A  STRANGE  ADVEXTURE.  7 

He  had  had  a  hard  day  ;  he  was  very  weary,  and  would 
have  hesitated  about  answering  a  strange  call  even  in 
mild  weather,  and  the  temptation  to  send  the  boy  and  his 
card  to  some  one  else,  and  remain  in  the  genial  warmth  of 
his  own  home,  was  very  strong. 

Still,  the  man  was  conscientious.  The  summons  was 
urgent,  and  it  might  be  a  case  of  life  and  death.  Perhaps 
the  delay  of  sending  to  some  other  physician  might  re 
sult  in  the  loss  of  a  human  life. 

This  thought  decided  him. 

He  turned  quickly  on  his  heel  and  passed  down  the 
ball  to  his  office,  remarking  to  the  waiting  messenger  as 
he  went  : 

"Wait  here.  I  will  be  ready  to  return  with  you  in  a 
few  moments." 

He  looked  into  his  medicine  case  to  see  that  he  had 
everything  that  he  Avlshed,  wrapped  himself  in  a  long 
ulster  with  an  ample  cape,  drew  a  fur  cap  down  over  his 
ears,  and  a  pair  of  seal-skin  gloves  upon  his  hands,  and 
then  went  forth  with  his  youthful  guide  to  face  the  pene 
trating  air  of  this  bitterly  co'd  night. 

When  he  reached  the  ----  House,  he  was  conducted 
directly  to  a  handsome  suite  of  rooms  in  the  third  story, 
and  ushered  into  the  presence  of  a  magnificenthr  beautiful 
woman,  who  was  reclining  upon  a  luxurious  couch. 

Dr.  Turner  had  never  seen  a  lovelier  woman.  She  was, 
apparently,  about  twenty-one  or  twenty-two  years  of  age. 
Her  hair  was  very  dark,  almost  black  ;  her  eyes  were 
also  very  dark,  with  straight,  beautiful  brows. 

She  was  deathly  pale—  the  pillow  on  which  she  lay  was 
scarcely  whiter  —  but  her  complexion  was  faultless,  her 
skin  as  fine  and  smooth  as  an  infant's,  while  her  features 
were  remarkable  for  their  delicacy  and  loveliness. 

Beside  her,  in  a  low  rocker,  and  holding  one  fair  white 
hand  in  both  her  own,  there  sat  another  woman,  some 
two  or  three  yenrs  older,  but  scarcely  less  beautiful.  ;il- 
though  of  a  different  type,  and  looking  anxious  and  dis- 


A  few  direct  inquiries  enabled  the  physician  to  com 
prehend  the  nature  of  the  case,  after  which  he  rapidly 
wrote  a  few  lines  upon  a  card,  and,  ringing  fora  servant, 
dispatched  it  to  the  clerk  below. 

An  hour  later  a  middle-aged  woman,  of  respectable  and 
motherly  appearance,  was  conducted  to  the  sick-room, 
and  when  morning  broke  there  was  still  another  presence 
in  that  chamber  —  a  tiny  baby  girl,  with  rings  cf  golden 


8  A  STRANGE  ADVENTURE. 

brown  hair  clustering  about  her  little  head,  with  eyes  of 
heaven's  own  blue,  and  delicate  patrician  features,  which, 
however,  wero  not  like  those  of  her  mother,  who  lay  pale 
and  weak  among  her  pillows,  and  who,  strange  to  say, 
had  betrayed  no  sign  of  joy  or  maternal  love  at  the  com 
ing  of  the  little  stranger. 

Three  weeks  previous  two  ladies  had  arrived,  late  one 
evening,  at  the House,  where  the  younger  had  regis 
tered  as  "Mrs.  E.  E.  Marston  and  maid." 

The  clerk,  as  he  read  the  entry,  had  glanced  with  aston 
ishment  at  the  lovely  blonde  who  had  been  thus  desig 
nated  as  "maid,"  for  her  manner  and  bearing  were  every 
whit  as  stately,  cultivated,  and  prepossessing  as  that  of 
her  supposed  mistress. 

Both  ladies  spoke  French  and  German,  as  well  as  Eng 
lish,  fluently,  and  it  was  impossible  to  determine  to  what 
nationality  they  belonged.  The  younger  seemed  almost 
like  a  Spanish  beauty  of  high  degree,  while  her  com 
panion  had  mo^e  the  appearance  of  an  Anglo-Saxon. 

Both  were  richly  and  fashionably  attired,  and  evidently 
belonged  to  the  wealthy  class,  for  Mrs.  Marston  wore 
jewels  of  the  purest  water  in  the  richest  of  settings.  Sho 
selected  the  most  elegant  suite  of  rooms  that  were  un 
occupied,  and  orlered  all  meals  to  be  served  in  her  private 
parlor;  consequently  but  very  little  was  seen  or  known 
of  either  mistress  or  maid  after  their  arrival,  although 
th1"  very  fact  of  their  so  closely  secluding  themselves 
served  to  excite  a  good  deal  of  curiosity  on  the  part  of 
the  other  inmates  of  the  house. 

After  the  birth  of  Mrs.  Marston's  little  daughter,  Dr. 
Turner  made  his  usual  number  of  visits  to  see  that  his 
patient  was  doing  well,  and  then  he  discontinued  them, 
although  his  curiosity  and  interest  were  so  excited  re 
garding  the  mysterious  woman  and  her  attendant  that 
he  would  have  been  glad  of  an  excuse  to  attend  her  even 
longer. 

Three  weeks  passed,  and  he  was  considering  the  pro 
priety  of  presenting  his  bill,  since  the  lady  was  a  stranger 
in  the  city,  and  would  doubtless  leave  as  soon  as  she 
could  do  so  with  safety  to  herself  and  her  child,  when, 
one  morning,  he  received  a  note  from  Mrs.  Marston,  re 
questing  him  to  cnll  upon  her  o,t  his  earliest  convenience. 

That  evening  found  him  knocking  at  her  door,  his  heart 
beating  with  something  of  excitement,  and  with  a  sense 
of  constraint  upon  him  such  as  he  had  never  before  ex 
perienced. 


A  8TRANG3  ADVENTURE.  9 

"The  maid"  admitted  him,  a  dainty  flush  tinging  her 
fair  cheek  as  she  encountered  his  earnest  glance,  and  he 
thought  her  more  heautiful  than  ever,  while  he  was  firmly 
convinced  that  she  was  in  reality  no  servant,  but  con 
nected  by  some  tie  of  blood  to  the  woman  whom  she  pro 
fessed  to  serve,  although  there  was  no  resemblance  be 
tween  them. 

Mrs.  Marston  arose  to  receive  him  as  he  entered. 

He  iiad  never  seen  her  dressed  until  now,  and  he  was 
almost  bewildered  by  her  brilliant  beauty. 

She  was  tall,  with  a  symmetrical  figure.  She  was  queenly 
and  self-possessed  in  her  carriage,  and  betrayed  in  every 
movement  the  well-bred  lady,  accustomed  to  the  very 
best  of  society. 

She  was  dressed  in  a  heavy  black  silk,  which  fitted  her 
perfectly,  and  fell  ia  graceful  folds  around  her  splendid 
form. 

She  wore  no  colors,  and  might  have  been  in  mourning, 
judging  from  the  simplicity  of  her  dress,  and  she  might 
not — he  could  not  determine.  Her  only  ornaments  were 
several  rings  of  great  value,  and  an  elegant  brooch, 
•which  fastened  the  rich  lace,  fine  as  a  cobweb,  about  her 
throat. 

"I  am  very  glad  to  see  you,  Dr.  Turner,"  she  said, 
graciously,  as  she  extended  her  white,  jeweled  hand  to 
him  ;  "and  I  thank  you  for  responding:  so  promptly  to  my 
request.  Nellie,  please  bring  that  rocker  for  the  gentle 
man,"  she  concluded,  indicating  a  willow  chair  in  another 
portion  of  the  room. 

The  maid  obeyed,  and  then  quietly  withdrew. 

"You  are  looking  remarkably  well,  Mrs.  Marston,"  Dr. 
Turner  observed,  hardly  able  to  believe  that  she  could  be 
the  same  woman  who  had  been  so  pale  and  wan  when 
he  had  first  seen  her. 

Her  complexion  was  almost  dazzling  in  its  purity,  while 
the  flush  on  her  cheek  told  of  perfect  health  and  a  vigor 
ous  constitution. 

"I  am  very  well,  thank  you,"  she  responded,  some 
what  coldly,  as  if  her  physical  condition  were  not  a  ques 
tion  that,  she  cared  to  discuss  with  him — "so  well  that  I 
am  contemplating  leaving  Boston  by  the  end  of  another 
week,  and  I  have  asked  you  to  come  to  me  in  order  that 
I  may  consult  you  upon  a  matter  of  great  importance. 
But  first,  do  you  think  I  shall  run  any  risk  in  traveling 
by  that  time?" 

"If  any  one  else  had  asked  me  thai,  I  should  have  said 


10  A  STRANGE  ADVENTURE. 

at  once,  'Impossible!'  "  returned  the  physician,  smiling. 
"But  you  have  so  rapidly  recuperated  that  I  should  not 
fear  a  change  so  much  for  you  as  for  many  others.  It 
depends  somewhat,  however,  upon  where  you  are  going." 

Mrs.  Marston  flushed  slightty  at  this,  but,  after  an  in 
stant  of  hesitation,  she  said,  composedly  : 

"Oh,  I  intend  to  go  to  a  warmer  climate.  I  shall  prob 
ably  spend  the  rest  of  the  winter  in  the  South.'1 

"Then  I  think  you  may  go  with  perfect  safety,  if  you 
are  quite  sure  you  teel  well  and  strong." 

"As  to  that,  I  never  felt  more  vigorous  in  mv  life ; 
but- 

The  lody  bent  her  shapely  head  in  thought,  a  shadow 
of  perplexity  and  doubt  crossing  her  beautiful  face. 

"Perhaps  you  fear  to  take  the  little  one;  the  weather 
is  rather  severe  for  a  tender  infant,"  suggested  the  doc 
tor. 

"Oh,  no.  I  do  not  intend  to  take  the  child  at  all,"  re 
turned  the  mother,  quickly,  a  nervous  tremor  running 
through  her  frame  as  she  spoke. 

"You  do  not  intend  to  take  your  child  with  you?1'  re 
peated  the  physician,  astonished,  while  he  searched  the 
downcast  face  before  him  with  a  suspicious  loos. 

"No  ;  and  that  was  what  I  wished  to  consul*-  with  you 
about,"  replied  Mrs.  Marston,  shifting  uneasily  for  an  in 
stant  beneath  his  glance. 

Then  she  lifted  her  head  proudly  and  met  his  eyes  with 
calm  hauteur. 

"You  wish  to  leave  it  out  to  nurse,  perhaps,  and  desire 
me  to  suggest  some  proper  person,"  observed  Dr.  Turner, 
trying  to  explain  her  conduct  thus. 

"No,"  answered  the  lady,  coldly.  "I  wished  to  ask  if 
you  could  recommend  some  institution  in  the  city  where 
I  could  put  her,  and  where  she  would  receive  proper 
care.'1 

Dr.  Turner  regarded  the  woman  with  amazement. 

"Institution,  madame  !  What  kind  of  an  institution?" 
he  asked,  aghast. 

"Some  public  institution,  or  some  home  for  homeless 
children,"  she  answered,  not  a  muscle  of  her  beautiful 
face  moving. 

"I  really  do  not  comprehend  you,"  the  physician  said, 
almost  ready  to  believe  that  he  was  in  the  presence  of  a 
lunatic,  for  surely  no  mother  in  her  right  mind  could 
think  of  abandoning  her  child  in  such  a  heartless  way. 

"Indeed,  I  thought  I  made  an   explicit  statement,"  re- 


A  MONSTROUS  PROPOSITION.  11 

marked  Mrs.  Marston,  haughtily.  "However  the  child  is 
not  to  go  with  me.  There  are  reasons — imperative  reasons 
— that  compel  me  to  dispose  of  her — 

"Abandon  her,  do  you  mean  ?"  questioned  the  physician, 
sternly. 

The  lady  shrugged  her  shapely  shoulders  and  made  an 
impatient  gesture,  as  if  the  subject  and  object  were  alike 
distasteful  to  her. 

"If  you  choose  to  put  it  in  that  disagreeable  way,  I 
suppose  I  shall  have  to  accept  the  term,"  she  replied, 
coldly.  "But  you  have  not  answered  my  question.  Do 
you  know  of  a  home  for  orphans  where  she  would  be  re 
ceived  and  where  I  might  safely  leave  her?  I  would  make 
it  an  object  for  any  such  institution  to  take  her." 

CHAPTER.  II. 

A  MONSTROUS  PROPOSITION. 

Dr.  Turner  did  not  immediately  reply. 

He  was  so  indignant,  so  overcome  by  the  startling  and 
unnatural  proposition  that  he  was  rendered  speechless. 

The  knowledge  that  this  woman,  so  beautiful  and 
gifted,  and  who  had,  to  all  appearance,  unlimited  wealth 
at  her  command,  should  desire  to  cast  her  offspring 
adrift  upon  the  world,  coldly  throwing  her  upon  the  in 
different  care  of  strangers,  was  simply  horrible  to  him. 

The  mystery,  which,  from  the  first,  he  had  instinctively 
recognized  as  attaching  itself  to  this  woman,  was  thicken 
ing  about  her. 

There  must,  he  thought,  be  some  terrible  secret  con 
nected  with  her  life,  which  she  was  anxious  and  bound 
to  conceal,  or  she  never  could  have  contemplated  such  an 
unfeeling  act,  and  he  could  think  of  but  one  contingency 
that  would  compel  her  to  adopt  such  extreme  measures. 

"Madame,"  he  at  last  said,  and  speaking  with  dignified 
reserve,  "I  cannot  refrain  from  expressing  my  surprise 
at  your  startling  and — I  am  compelled  to  say  it — heart 
less  proposal.  It  would  be  a  most  unnatural — a  most  rep 
rehensible  proceeding.  My  whole  nature  recoils  at  the 
mere  mention  of  it,  and  I  can  think  of  but  one  reason 
that  would  seem  to  make  it  necessary  for  you  to  abandon 
your  child  in  the  way  you  propose." 

The  physician  paused  a  moment,  as  if  in  doubt  as  to 
the  propriety  of  saying  more. 

"Well,  and  what  may  that   be?"  briefly   demanded  his 


12  A  MONSTROUS  PROPOSITION. 

companion,  in  a  tone  that  should  have  warned  him  not  to 
give  expression  to  his  thought. 

"Perhaps  your  little  one  has  come  into  the  world  un 
protected  by  the  tie  of  wedlock,  and  therefore  you  desire 
to  conceal  from  every  one  the  evidence  of— 

She  checked  the  words  upon  his  lips  with  an  imperious 
gesture. 

A  vivid  crimson  rushed  to  her  brow,  suffused  her  neck, 
and  seemed  to  extend  to  the  very  tips  of  her  fingers; 
then  the  color  as  quickly  receded,  leaving  her  patrician 
face  ghastly  pale. 

She  threw  up  her  proud  head  with  a  movement  of  ex-^ 
quisite  grace  ;  an  angry  fire  leaped  into  her  dusky  eyes;" 
an  expression  of  scorn  curled  her  beautiful  lips. 

"  How  dare  you  say  such  a  thing  to  me  ?"  she  demanded, 
in  a  passionate  tone  that  had  a  thrill  of  pain  in  it  as  well. 
"But  for  your  former  kindness  to  me,  I  would  never  par 
don  you  !  You  have  a  suspicion  that  I  am  not  a  married 
woman." 

"I  could  think  of  no  other  excuse  for  what  you  pro 
posed  regarding  your  child,"  replied  the  physician,  meet 
ing  her  flashing  glance  calmly,  and  with  a  note  of  con 
tempt  in  his  voice,  although  he  half  regretted  having 
spoken  as  he  had. 

He  believed  even  now  that  she  was  acting  a  part. 

She  saw  it,  and  again  her  face  flamed  scarlet. 

Then  she  drew  from  the  third  finder  of  her  left  hand  a 
superb  solitaire  diamond  ring,  and  passed  it  to  him. 

"Examine  that  if  you  please,"  she  commanded,  briefly 
and  icily. 

He  took  it,  and  upon  its  inner  surface  found  engraved 
in  tiny  characters,  "  C.  to  E.  Sept.  10th,  185 — .  Omnia 
Vincit  Amor." 

It  had  evidently  been  given  to  her  in  September  of  the 
previous  year 

"An  engagement  ring,"  be  remarked,  as  he  passed  it 
back  to  her  with  an  air  that  plainly  said  :  "That  proves 
nothing  to  your  advantage." 

Madame  bowed  and  then  quietly  but  proudly  drew  from 
the  same  finger  a  massive  circlet  of  gold  which  she  also 
handed  to  him. 

A  dusky  red  surged  to  the  physician's  brow  as  he  re 
ceived  it  and  realized  what  he  had  done.  He  felt  as  if  he 
had  offered  the  fair  woman  an  unpnrdonable  insult. 

This  ring  was  marked  C.  8.  to  E.  B.,  Paris,  March  ISfh, 
185—." 


A  MONSTROUS  PROPOSITION.  13 

Both  circlets  proved  an  honorable  engagement  and  a 
lawful  marriage,  the  latter  occurring  some  seven  months 
subsequent  to  the  former,  and  Dr.  Turner  felt  that  ho  had 
got  himself  into  a  very  unpleasant  predicament. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  madame,"  he  said,  with  visible  con 
fusion,  but  in  a  grave,  respectful  tone;  "but  your  very 
extraordinary  proposition  must  be  my  apology  for  my 
unjurat  and  offensive  suspicion." 

For  a  moment  the  lady  regarded  him  gravely,  but  with 
a  little  gleam  of  triumph  in  her  dark  eyes  ;  then  with  a 
shrug  of  her  shapely  shoulders,  she  replied  : 

"Perhaps  it  was  but  natural ;  let  it  pass.  I  became  a 
lawful  wife,  as  you  have  seen,  nearly  a  year  ago,  and 
my  child  has  had  honorable  birth :  but,  for  reasons 
which  I  cannot  explain  to  you,  I  can  never  acknowledge 
her,  and  it  becomes  necessary  for  me  to  make  some  other 
provision  for  her." 

"But  it  is  such  an  unnatural  thing  to  do,"  persisted  the 
doctor,  with  a  deprecating  gesture. 

"Granted;  but — it  cannot  be  helped,"  replied  the 
mother,  firmly,  an  inflexible  purpose  written  on  her  fait 
young  face. 

"Allow  me  to  inquire  if  your  husband  is  living?"  Dr. 
Turner  asked,  after  a  moment  of  silence. 

"Excuse  me;  I  cannot  answer  that  question,"  replied 
his  companion  with  pale,  compressed  lips. 

"Ah!  there  has  b-sen  some  trouble  and  a  separation, 
perhaps,"  thought  the  doctor  ;  then  he  asked  : 

"Do  you  think  that  he  would  uphold  you  in  thus  sacri 
ficing  your  little  one — his  little  one,  to  your  selfish  pur 
pose — to  abandon  her,  as  you  propose,  to  the  doubtful 
charity  of  a  cold  world." 

An  icy  shiver  seemed  to  run  throughout  the  woman's 
frame  at  this.  She  shifted  uneasily  in  her  chair,  her 
white  lids  quivered,  her  hands  were  locked  in  a  rigid, 
painful  clasp. 

"I  tell  you  there  are  circumstances  which  make  it  ab 
solutely  necessary  for  me  to  give  her  away,"  she  said,  in 
a  strained,  unnatural  voice,  after  an  evident  effort  at 
self  control.  "My  husband  would — is  as  helpless  in  the 
matter  as  myself." 

"I  can  conceive  of  no  circumstances  which  should  make 
the  well-beincr  of  your  child. of  secondary  importance,  es 
pecially  since  you  have  assured  me  that  you  are  a  lawful 
wife,  and  it  is  evident  that  you  have  abundant  means  at 
your  command.  She  is  your  own  flesh  and  blood,  and  it 


14  A  MONSTROUS  PROPOSITION. 

becomes  your  duty,  as  a  mother,  to  give  her  a  mother's 
love  and  care.  I  care  not  what  fancied  or  real  obstacle 
stands  in  the  way,  it  should  be  resolutely  swept  aside 
for  the  sake  of  both  duty  and  humanity,"  Dr.  Turner 
argued,  with  impressive  earnestness. 

"  You  simply  do  not  know  anything  about  the  matter, 
eir,"  retorted  his  patient,  with  an  angry  flash  in  her 
eyes,  "and,  if  you  please,  we  will  not  discuss  that  point 
any  further." 

Dr.  Turner  bowed  a  cold  assent ;  then,  as  he  returned 
the  wedding-ring,  which  he  had  retained  until  now,  he  re 
marked  : 

"The  name  you  have  given  here  does  not  correspond 
with  your  husband's  initials  upon  this  ring." 

The  lady's  lips  curled  in  a  little  scornful  smile. 

"  Did  you  imagine  that  I  would  use  my  true  name  in 
such  a  venture  as  this  ?"  she  asked.  "But  that  is  neither 
here  nor  there,"  she  added,  with  an  impatient  toss  of  her 
head.  "Do  you  know  of  any  institution  in  this  city  where 
my  child  would  be  received  ?" 

"No:  there  is  no  public  institution  that  would  so  far 
countenance  your  conduct  as  to  open  its  doors  to  her,  and 
I  would  not  designate  it  if  there  were.  Such  places  are 
for  children  who  have  no  parents,  or  for  those  whose 
parents  are  too  poor  to  care  for  them,"  the  physician  in 
dignantly  replied. 

Then,  after  a  short  pause,  he  continued,  with  great 
earnestness  : 

"  Let  me  make  one  last  appeal  to  you,  madame.  You 
have  given  birth  to  a  lovely  little  daughter,  who  bids  fair 
to  be  a  child  of  whom  any  parent  might  well  be  proud. 
It  would  be  a  continual  delight  to  watch  her  grow  and 
develop  into  womanhood,  and  she  would  no  doubt  be  of 
the  greatest,  comfort  to  you  years  hence,  when  you  begin 
to  descend  the  hill  of  life.  Keep  your  child,  Mrs.  Marston, 
do  not  cast  her  off  upon  the  doubtful  care  of  strangers,  to 
become  you  know  not  what  in  the  future.  Love  and 
cherish  her,  nourish  her  innocence  and  purity,  and  do 
not,  I  beseech  you,  commit  the  irreparable  wrong  which 
you  are  contemplating." 

The  woman  before  him  threw  out  her  white  jeweled 
hands  in  a  spasmodic  gesture  in  which  impatience,  pain, 
and  anger  were  commingled. 

"Spare  your  importunities,  Dr.  Turner,"  she  said, 
ecolly,  "  for  I  assure  you  it  is  only  a  waste  of  breath  and 
sentiment  on  your  part." 


A  MONSTROUS  PROPOSITION.  15 

"Have  you  no  love  for  your  innocent  babe  ?"  he  de 
manded,  sternly. 

"  I  have  not  dared — I  will  not  allow  myself  to  become  at 
tached  to  her."  was  the  low,  constrained  reply. 

"Have  you  no  pity,  then.,  that  you  thrust  her  thus  re 
morselessly  from  your  sheltering  care?" 

"  I  should  become  an  object  far  more  pitiable  if  I  should 
keep  her  with  me,"  returned  the  incomprehensible 
mother. 

"I  cannot  understand  it.  Poor  child!  poor  child!" 
sighed  the  sympathetic  and  perplexed  physician. 

"Doctor,"  said  his  companion,  with  a  sudden  start,  her 
face  lighting  with  eagerness,  "have  you  children  of  your 
own?" 

"No,  rnadame.  I  should  consider  myself  blessed,  in 
deed,  if  I  had,"  he  sighed. 

"Then  will  you  adopt  my  daughter?  I  can  assure  you 
that  there  is  not  the  slightest  taint  upon  her  parentage, 
and  it  is  only  the  force  of  hard,  obstinate  circumstances 
that  compels  me  to  give  her  up.  Your  sympathies  seem 
to  have  been  enlisted  for  her.  I  am  sure  you  are  a  good 
man,  and  I  know  that  she  would  find  a  kind  parent  in 
you." 

The  man  flushed,  and  tears  rose  to  his  eyes  at  this  ap 
peal. 

"Mrs.  Marston,"  he  said,  sadly,  "if  your  child  had 
been  born  six  months  earlier,  and  you  had  asked  me  this 
question  at  that  time,  I  should  have  answered  you  with 
eagerness  in  the  affirmative  ;  but  she  who  would  have 
given  the  little  one  a  mother's  care  is  no  longer  in  my 
home.  She  died  five  months  ago  this  very  day,  and  I 
have  no  one  else  in  my  family  to  whom  I  could  commit 
the  babe." 

"Then  what  shall  I  do?"  murmured  the  woman,  with 
knitted  brows  and  sternly  compressed  lips. 

"I  can  think  only  of  one  alternative  that  I  should  be 
willing  to  suggest,"  replied  the  doctor. 

"What  is  that?"  she  demanded,  eagerly. 

"Advertise  for  some  young  couple  to  adopt  the  child. 
You  will  then  have  an  opportunity  to  select  a  permanent 
home  for  her,  and  escape  the  anxiety  which  her  uncer 
tain  fate  in  a  charitable  institution  would  entail  upon 
you.  I  should  suppose  the  mere  thought  of  it  would  be 
torture  to  you." 

"It  is,"  replied  the  mother,  with  a  quick,  indrawn 
breath,  while  a  nervous  shiver  ran  over  her.  "I  will  do 


16  A  MONSTROUS  PROPOSITION. 

it,"  she  added,  the  look  of  care  vanishing  from  her  face, 
•which  had  now  become  to  the  high-minded  physician 
more  like  the  face  of  a  beautiful  fiend  than  that  of  a  ten 
der-hearted  woman.  "  I  will  advertise  in  the  Transcript 
to-morrow  morning,  and  will  offer  the  sum  of  rive  hun 
dred  dollars  to  any  respectable  couple  who  will  take  the 
babe  and  promise  to  rear  and  educate  her  as  their  own.  I 
wonder  why  I  did  not  think  of  that  plan  myself,"  she 
concluded,  with  a  sigh  of  relief. 

44 1  should  propose  omitting  the  reward  from  the  adver 
tisement,"  observed  the  doctor,  with  a  slight  curl  of  his 
lips. 

"Why  so?" 

"Because  in  that  case  you  would  be  sure  that  whoever 
applied  for  her  was  actuated  by  a  real  desire  to  have  the 
little  one  ;  while,  if  money  were  offered,  cupidity  might 
be  the  main  object  in  the  application." 

"Perhaps  you  are  right,"  Mrs.  Marston  observed, 
thoughtfully  ;  "and  yet  I  believe  I  shall  offer  it.  I  shall, 
at  all  events,  give  that  amount  to  whoever  adopts  the 
child." 

She  then  adroitly  changed  the  subject,  plying  the  phy 
sician  with  numerous  questions  regarding  Boston,  its  at 
tractions  and  advantages,  and  so  effectually  led  his  mind 
in  another  direction,  charming  him  with  her  rare  con 
versational  gifts,  her  evident  culture  and  familiarity 
•with  both  America  and  Europe,  that  he  spent  a  delightful 
hour  with  her,  and  temporarily  forgot  the  contempt  and 
repulsion  which  he  had  previously  entertained  for  her. 

When  the  clock  upon  the  mantel  struck  four,  he  started 
up  in  surprise,  at  which  a  sly  smile  curved  his  fair  en 
tertainer's  red  lips,  for  she  knew  that  she  had  held  him 
by  the  magic  of  her  fascinations,  as  she  had  meant  to  do. 

But  she  arose  also,  and  cordially  extended  her  hand  to 
him  at  parting,  while  she  remarked,  smilingly  : 

"I  have  neglected  a  very  important  item  of  business, 
and  came  very  near  forgetting  it  altogether.  If  you  have, 
•with  you,  the  bill  for  your  services  to  me,  I  shall  be  very 
happy  to  settle  it." 

Dr.  Turner  flushed,  and  began  to  search  his  pockets, 
without  appearing  to  notice  the  proffered  hand. 

At  length  he  drew  a  Blip  of  paper  from  his  diary,  and 
handed  it  to  her. 

She  smiled  again  as  she  noticed  the  figures  upon  it ;  but 
unlocking  a  drawer  in  the  table  near  which  they  were 
standing,  she  took  from  it  an  elegant  purse,  in  which 


A  XON8TROU8  PROPOSITION.  17 

there  appeared  to  be  a  plentiful  supply  of  both  gold  nnd 
paper  money. 

She  selected  a  bill  and  extended  it  to  him. 
"  I  am   not  able   to   change  that  for  you,  madame,"  ho 
said,  as  ha  glanced  at  it  and  saw  that  it  was  a  hundred- 
dollar  note. 

"I  do  not  wish  it  changed.  Please  take  it.  Even  then 
I  shall  feel  that  I  am  deeply  indebted  to  you,"  she  re 
turned,  with  an  earnestness  such  as  she  had  not  betrayed 
before  during  the  interview. 

Again  the  dusky  red  rushed  to  the  doctor's  temples. 
"If  it  is  not  convenient   for   you   to  hand  me  just  the 
amount  of  my  bill,  you  can  send  me  a  check  for  the   sum 
later,"  he  said,  coldly. 

She  bit  her  lips  with  mortification,  and  then  tears 
rushed  into  her  eyes. 

"Oh,  it  is  perfectly  convenient.  Excuse  me  ;  I  did  not 
intend  to  offend  you,  but  I  am  truly  grateful  for  the  kind 
attention  you  have  bestowed  upon  me,  and  I  shall  always 
entertain  friendly  memories  of  you." 

Dr.  Turner  returned  a  courteous  bow  for  the  promise 
of  "friendly  memories,"  but  remarked,  briefly  : 

"I  have  but  done  my  duty  as  a  physician,  madams. " 
An   angry   flush  mounted    to  her   brow  as    she  counted 
five  golden   eagles   from  her   purse  and  laid  them  in  hia 
hand. 

"I  know,"  she   said,  "that   you  think  I  am  a  heartless 
monster  in  woman's  form  ;  but  you  would  not,  I  am  sure, 
if  you  could  understand  the  strait  that  I  am  in." 
Another  bow  was  his  only  reply  to  this. 
He   could  not   gainsay  her   statement  regarding  his  es 
timate  of  her  character,  and  he  would  not    presume  to  in 
quire  further  into  the  mystery  sui'rounding  her. 

"I  should  be  glad  to  retain  your  good  opinion,"  she  re 
sumed,  with  a  slight,  deprecating  gesture,  "for  you  have 
been  a  good  friend  to  me  in  my  necessity,  but  a  stern  fate 
compels  me  to  forego  that.  I  trust,  however,  that  I 
shall  see  you  again  before  I  leave  your  city." 

And  she  again  extended  her  hand  to  him  in  farewell. 
"If  you  need  mo — if  I  can  serve  you  in  any  way,    com 
mand  me,"  Dr.  Turner  returned,  politely,  but  with  an  em 
phasis  which  plainly  indicated  that  he  should  not   volun 
tarily  seek  her  society. 

He  bowed  again,  but  barely  touched  the  hand  held  out 
to  him,  and  then  went  his  way,  wondering  what  mys 
terious  circumstance,  or  combination  of  circumstances, 


18  THE  LITTLE  STRANQEK  ADOPTED. 

could   have   forced   this   beautiful  and  gifted   woman  to 
abandon  her  child  thus  at  the  very  beginning  of  its  life. 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE   LITTLE   STRANGER  ADOPTED. 

The  next  morning  there  appeared  an  advertisement  in 
the  Boston  Transcript,  offering  five  hundred  dollars  to 
suitable  pai  ties  who  would  adopt  a  female  in  taut,  and 
stating  tiiat  applications  were  to  be  made  by  letter,  ad 
dressed  to  the  office  of  the  paper. 

Of  course  a  great  many  answers  were  received,  for 
there  were  hosts  of  people  who  would  agres  to  almost 
anything  for  five  hundred  dollars,  while  there  were 
others  who  were  really  anxious  to  adopt  the  little  baby 
girl  that  was  to  be  so  strangely  thrown  upon  the  world. 

One  alone  out  of  these  many  epistles  pleased  Mrs. 
Marston.  It  was  written  in  a  clear,  elegant  hand,  signed 
"August  and  Alice  Damon." 

It  was  from  a  young  couple,  and  stated  that  only  a 
month  previous  they  had  lost  their  own  little  daughter 
• — a  babe  of  »  few  weeks — and  their  hearts  were  so  sore 
over  their  loss,  their  home  so  lonely  and  sad,  that  they 
would  gladly  take  a  little  one  to  fill,  as  far  as  might  be 
possible,  the  place  of  their  lost  darling,  and  if  the  child 
in  question  pleased  them  and  there  was  nothing  objec 
tionable  connected  with  her  birth  or  antecedents,  they 
would  gladly  adopt  her  without  the  payment  of  the 
premium  that  had  been  offered. 

Mrs.  Marston,  after  reading  this  communication,  imme 
diately  dashed  off  a  note  asking  the  young  people  to  call 
upon  her  at  their  earliest  convenience — in  case  they  were 
at  liberty  to  do  so,  the  next  morning  at  ten  o'clock  ;  she 
would  reserve  that  hour  for  them. 

Promptly  at  that  time  a  young  gentleman  and  lady  of 
prepossessing  appearance  were  ushered  into  Mrs.  Mars- 
ton's  private  parlor,  and  one  glance  into  their  kind  and 
intelligent  faces  convinced  her  that  shfi  had  found  the 
right  parties  to  whom  to  intrust  her  child. 

"Mr.  and  Mrs.  Damon,"  Mrs.  Marston  said,  graciously 
receiving  them,  and  glancing  at  the  cards  that  had  been 
sent  up  before  them  to  announce  their  arrival,  "I  am  very 
much  pleased  to  meet  you." 


THE  LITTLE  STRANGER  ADOPTED.  19   - 

She  invited  them  to  be  seated,  and  then  entered  at  once 
the  object  of  their  visit. 

"I  have  appointed  an  interview  with  you  in  preference 
to  ail  other  applicants,"  she  said,  "because  of  the  real 
interest  and  feeling  evinced  in  your  letter  to  me.  But 
before  we  decide  upon  the  matter  under  consideration,  I 
•would  like  to  know  sometbiiig  about  you  and  your  pros 
pects  for  the  future." 

Mr.  August  Damon,  a  fine-looking  young  man  of  per 
haps  twenty-five  years,  frankly  informed  the  lady  that 
their  home  was  in  Boston  ;  that  he  was  a  clerk  in  a  large 
wholesale  boot  and  shoe  house ;  his  salary  was  a  fair  one, 
and  there  was  a  prospect  that  he  might  become  a  me.ii  her 
of  the  firm  at  no  very  distant  date,  if  all  went  well  with 
the  business.  He  said  that  both  he  and  his  wife  were 
very  fond  of  children,  and  had  been  almost  heart-broken 
over  the  loss  of  their  own  child.  They  had  resolved,  if 
they  could  find  one  to  whom  their  hearts  turned,  to 
adopt  another,  and  bestow  upon  it.  as  far  as  might  be, 
the  love  and  care  that  the^r  own  child  would  have  re 
ceived  if  it  had  lived.  They  had  seen  her  advertisement 
in  the  Transcript,  and  had  determined  to  respond  to  it, 
hoping  thus  to  succeed  in  their  object. 

"Nothing  could  be  better,"  Mrs.  Marston  eagerly  said, 
in  reply.  u  This  is  just  the  opportunity  that  I  desire.  I 
feel  sure  that  you  will  give  my  little  one  the  kindest 
care,  and  I  shall  relinquish  her  to  you  most  willingly. 
I  shall  expect  you  will  do  by  her  exactly  as  you 
would  have  done  by  your  own  ;  that  you  will  give  her 
your  name,  educate  her,  and  give  her  such  advantages  as 
your  means  will  allow.  This  must  be  your  part  in  our 
contract,  while  mine  will  be  to  renounce  all  claim  upon 
her,  and  make  over  to  you  the  amount  which  I  specified 
in  my  advertisement." 

August  Damon  never  once  took  his  eyes  from  the  face 
of  that  proud,  beautiful  woman  while  she  was  speaking. 
They  burned  with  a  strange  fire,  an  indignant  flush 
mantled  his  cheek,  and  an  expression  of  contempt  curled 
his  fine  lips. 

His  wife  viewed  the  apparently  heartless  mother  with 
speechless  wonder,  her  eyes  fastened  upon  her  in  a  sort 
of  horrible  fascination. 

Her  sweet,  delicate  face  was  colorless  as  the  snowy 
ruffle  about  her  white  neck,  and  she  trembled  visibly  as 
she  listened  to  her  abrupt  and  apparently  unfeeling  dis 
posal  of  a  human  soul. 


20  THE  LITTLE  STRAXQER  ADOPTED. 

There  was  an  awkward  pause  after  Mrs.  Marston  con 
cluded,  and  she  seemed  to  become  suddenly  conscious  of 
the  very  unpleasant  impression  which  lier  strange  words 
and  proceedings  had  produced  upon  her  visitors,  and  a 
rush  of  vivid  color  mantled  her  cheeks. 

iihe  could  not  fail  to  realize  that  her  guests  were  well- 
bred,  even  cultivated  people  ;  the  stamp  of  true  gentility 
was  upon  them,  and  it  was  extremely  galling  to  her 
haughty  spirit  to  ieel  that  they  had  been  weighing  her  in 
the  balance  of  their  own  refined  and  noble  natures,  and 
had  found  her  sadly  wanting  in  all  thos«  gentler  qualities 
and  attributes  which  naturally  belong  to  a  woman,  and 
especially  to  a  mother. 

But  she  was  impatient  of  all  restraint  and  discomfort. 
She  threw  off  the  feeling  with  the  usual  shrug  of  her 
shapely  shoulders,  and  raising  her  handsome  head  with  a 
haughty  air  she  continued,  somewhat  imperiously  : 

''  Do  you  accede  to  the  conditions  that  I  have  mentioned  ; 
and  you,  madarne?"  turning  her  great  dark  eyes  full  upon 
the  gentle  but  shocked  wite. 

"Oh,  how  can  you  bear  to  part  thus  with  your  little 
one,  the  darling  whose  pulses  are  throbbing  with  your 
own  life-blood?"  exclaimed  sweet  Alice  Damon,  tears 
starting:  to  her  earnest,  gray-blue  eyes,  her  delicate  lips 
trembling  with  emotion. 

"That  is  a  question  that  I  cannot  allow  myself  to  con 
sider,"  responded  Mrs.  Marston,  with  a  peculiar  gesture 
of  her  jeweled  hands,  which  might  have  meant  either 
pain  or  repugnance,  "neither  can  I  enter  into  any  ex 
planation  upon  that  point;  the  fact  remains,  T  must  part 
with  her,  and  it  is  my  wish  to  make  the  best  possible  pro 
vision  for  her." 

"We  should  be  glad  to  see  the  child,  madam,"  Mr. 
Damon  gravely  remarked. 

"Of  course.  I  will  have  her  brought  in  immediately  ;" 
and  Mrs.  Marston  arose  to  ring  a  bell. 

A  moment  later  a  portly  matron  entered  the  room 
bearing  in  her  arms  a  lovely  babe  about  a  month  old,  ar 
rayed  in  a  richly  embrodiered  robe,  and  wrapped  in  the 
softest  and  whitest  of  flannels 

Alice  Damon  uttered  an  eager  cry,  in  which  the  ten- 
derest  mother-love  and  the  keenest  pain  were  blended,  as 
she  caught  sight  of  the  beautiful  child  who  recalled  so 
vividly  her  own  lost  treasure. 

Starting  from  her  seat  she  glided  swiftly  over  the  soft 
carpet,  and  the  next  moment  the  tiny  creature  was 


THE  LITTLE  STRANGER  ADOPTED.  21 

clasped  close  to  her  aching  heart,  while  a  scb  burst  from 
her  us  she  pressed  her  quivering  lips  to  its  velvet  cheek. 
Then  she  turned  to  her  husband  with  ii  still  in  her  arms. 

"Oh,  August,  she  is  lovely  !"  she  murmured,  in  husky, 
unsteady  tones.  "And,  dear,  my  heart  longs  for  her!" 

Mr.  Damon  stood  looking  down  upon  the  two  for  a  mo 
ment,  while  he  seemed  struggling  with  some  deep  emo 
tion. 

He  took  one  of  the  little  soft  hands  that  lay  outside 
the  heavily  wrought  blanket  tenderly  in  his  own,  and 
bent  for  a  nearer  view  of  the  small  face. 

"Her  eyes  are  blue,"  he  said,  under  his  breath. 

"Yes,  like  our  own  darling's.  Oh,  August,  we  will  take 
her,  will  we  not?"  pleaded  his  wife,  eagerly. 

A  look  of  fondest  love  leaped  into  his  eyes  as  they  met 
hers,  but  he  did  not  reply  to  her  just  then. 

He  turned  again  to  Mrs.  Marston. 

"I  have  an  important  question  vrhich  I  feel  it  neces- 
earj  to  ask  you?"  he  began. 

"In  a  moment,"  «he  returned,  and  signed  to  the  nurse 
to  withdraw. 

"Now,  if  you  please,"  she  added,  as  the  door  closed 
after  the  woman. 

"Is  your  child  legitimate  ?  If  you  can  assure  me  of  that, 
and  that  nothing  of  dishonor  can  ever  touch  her  in  the 
future,  and  that,  as  far  as  you  know,  she  inherits  no 
taint  of  insanity  or  incurable  disease,  I  see  no  reason 
•why  we  should  not  accede  to  your  conditions  and  adopt 
the  babe  as  our  own." 

Mrs.  Marston's  face  had  grown  crimson  during  this 
speech,  and  her  eyes  flamed  with  anger. 

Twice  that  week  she  had  been  ol-liged  to  meet  this 
humiliating  suspicion,  and  it  was  more  than  her  proud 
spirit  could  endure. 

"Do  you  presume "  she  began,  haughtily. 

"Madame,"  August  Damon  interrupted,  gravely,  but 
with  the  utmost  respect,  "pray  do  n<  I  accuse  me  of  pre 
sumption  when  I  have  only  the  well-being  of  your  own 
child  at  heart.  If  you  will  but  consider  a  moment  you 
cannot  fail  to  realize  that  it  is  both  natural  and  proper  I 
should  wish  to  be  assured  that  the  child  I  contemplate 
taking  as  my  own  is  of  honorable  parentage,  and  with 
no  heritage  of  future  misery  hanging  over  her.  "We  shrill, 
of  course,  use  every  precaution  to  prevent  her  from  ever 
realizing  that  she  is  not  our  very  own  ;  but  there  may 
•ouie  a  time  when  unforeseen  erenti  will  lead  her  to  sus- 


22  THE  LITTLE  STRANUER  ADOPTED. 

pect  the  truth,  and  then  she  will  demand  to  be  told  her 
history.  I  must  have  it  in  my  power  to  tell  her  that  no 
story  of  shame,  no  stain,  was  attached  to  her  birth." 

The  gentleman's  tone  was  firm  but  courteous,  and  the 
proud  woman  before  him  realized  a  pride  as  deep-seated 
as  her  own,  and  that  she  had  no  common  character  to 
deal  with. 

He  had  a  perfect  right  to  ask  her  these  questions,  she 
knew,  and  she  was  bound  to  answer  them  in  all  sincer- 
ity. 

The  anger  died  out  of  her  eyes  ;  the  color  left  her  face, 
and  there  was  more  humility  in  her  manner  than  she  had 
before  displayed,  as  she  rpelied  : 

"Mr.  Damon,  I  assure  you  that  you  need  never  fear 
even  a  breath  against  the  fair  fame  or  parentage  of  my 
child.  I  was  legally  marriod  to  a  noble,  high-minded 
gentleman,  on  the  15th  of  last  March,  although  the  cere 
mony  was  not  performed  in  this  country.  More  I  cannot 
tell  you  regarding  my  private  history.  As  to  the  little 
one's  constitution,  she  inherits  no  taint  of  disease  or 
imnfcil  trouble  that  I  am  aware  of.  T  have  always  en 
joyed  vigorous  health,  as  my  physique  at  the  present 
time  ought  to  prove  to  you. 

"I  know,"  she  continued,  after  a  moment  of  thoughtful 
silence,  "that  the  giving  away  of  my  child,  when  to  all 
appearance  there  is  no  necessity  for  such  an  unusual  act, 
appears  like  a  monstrous  proceeding ;  but  I  am  so 
situated  that  I  cannot  help  myself;  the  need  is  impera 
tive — a  relentless  fate  compels  me  to  the  unnatural  act.  I 
can  tell  you  nothing  more ;  if  you  see  fit  to  adopt  the 
babe,  after  hearing  this,,  well  and  good  ;  if  not.  I  must 
replv  to  some  others  application,  and  make  other  ar 
rangements  for  her." 

"T  am  satisfied  with  what  you  have  told  me,  and  the 
child  shall  come  to  us.  Alice,  sfoe  is  yours  if  you  so  wish." 
said  the  young  husband,  turning  with  a  fond  smile  to  his 
fair  wife. 

"I  do  wish  it,  August.  I  could  not  give  her  tip  now. 
See  !  how  content  she  is  !"  and  the  sweet  ^womnn  looked 
lovingly  down  at  the  little  face  lying  so  peacefully  upon 
her  bosom. 

"You  are  willing  to  make  the  gift  a  legal  one.  I  sup 
pose,"  said  Mr.  Damon,  turning  again  to  Mrs.  Marston, 
who,  with  a  look  of  intense  relief  upon  her  face,  was 
closely  watching  the  young  couple. 

"If  you  mean  by  that  that  I  will  sign   papers   to   ratify 


THE  LITTLE  STKAXGER  ADOPTED.  23 

the  bond,  I  must  say,  No  !"  the  woman  replied,  -with  de 
cision. 

"Of  what  use  would  such  papers  be, "she  vrent  on, 
"since  I  could  not  place  my  real  signature  upon  them, 
and  the  name,  by  which  I  am  known  to  you  to-day,  would 
amount  to  nothing,  legally.  I  can  only  give  her  to  you 
here,  now,  in  this  informal  way.  Take  her — she  is  yours  ; 
and  may  she  be  a  great  comfort  to  you  during  your  future 
lives." 

"I  see,"  replied  Mr.  Damon,  "papers  of  adoption  would 
amount  to  nothing  ;"  but,  nevertheless,  he  did  not  appear 
very  well  satisfied  with  this  conclusion. 

"And  here  is  the  future  little  Miss  Damon's  dowry," 
continued  Mrs.  Marston,  with  a  smile,  as  she  took  a  roll 
of  bills  from  the  same  drawer  whence  she  had  paid  Dr. 
Turner,  "and  I  cannot  begin  to  tell  you  how  much  of 
gratitude  goes  with  it." 

"Madame,  I  cannot  accept  your  money,"  August  Damon 
said,  flushing  hotly,  as  he  drew  back  from  the  proffered 
bribe  ;  for  such  it  seemed  to  him. 

"I  am  rich  ;  I  wish  yon  to  have  it,"  said  the  lady. 

"It  is  the  child  that  we  want,  for  her  own  sake,  not,  for 
what  you  offer  as  an  inducement  to  adopt  her,"  returned 
the  young  man,  with  cligm'ty. 

"But  I  must  insist,"  Mrs.  Marston  replied.  "If  you 
have  no  immediate  use  for  it,  put  it  at  interest  some 
where  for  her,  and  let  it  accumulate  for  a  marriage  por 
tion.  You  will  have  to  name  her,"  she  resumed,  with  a 
glance  at  the  little  one.  "Call  her  whatever  you  wish, 
and  may  she  prove  a  real  blessing  to  you."" 

She  approached  Alice  Damon  as  she  spoke,  laid  the  r^ll 
of  bills  between  the  soft,  pinlt  hands  of  the  now  sleeping 
bahp,  bent  over  her  and  imprinted  a  light  kiss  upon  her 
cheek,  then  turning  quicklv  away,  she  bowed  to  the  hus 
band  and  wife  and  walked  abruptly  from  the  room. 

A  half-hour  later  the  mysterious  little  stranerer  was 
sleeping  peacefully  in  the  daintv  cradle  that  had  once 
held  Alice  Damon's  namesake,  while  two  tender,  earnest 
faces  bent  fondly  over  her,  as  huhsand  and  wife  prayed 
that  she  might  long  be  spared  to  be  a  comfort  and  a  bless 
ing  to  them,  and  never  realize  the  shadow  that  rested 
upon  her  birth 

The  next  morning,  at  an  parly  hour,  Mrs.  Marston   and 

her   "maid"  quietly   left   the House,    and   the  city, 

leaving  no  address,  nor  any  clew  to  their  destination  be 
hind  them. 


84      A  GRANGE  OF  RESIDENCE  AND  AN  ADVENTURE. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

A  CHANGE  OP  RESIDENCE  AND   AN   ADVENTURE. 

Thus  the  stranger's  cliild  found  a  home,  with  loving 
hearts  and  willing  hands  to  care  for  h«r. 

But  August  and  Alice  Damon  Huntress  had  for  certain 
reasons  withheld  their  surname  from  the  mother  of  the 
«hild  they  had  adopted. 

"  I  shall  never  put  myself  in  the  power  of  this  woman," 
he  had  said  to  his  wife,  while  discussing  the  question. 
"If  we  adopt  this  little  one  we  must  so  arrange  matters 
that  she  can  never  be  taken  from  us ;  so  that  she  can 
never  even  be  found  by  those  who  give  her  to  us,  or  b« 
told  that  she  is  not  our  own  flesh  and  blood." 

So  he  had  called  himself  August  Damon,  which  waft  the 
truth,  as  far  as  it  went,  but  no  one  in  Boston  knew  him  by 
any  other  uame  than  Huntress,  and  he  did  not  intend  that 
the  mother  of  the  little  one  should  ever  know  what  be 
came  of  the  child  after  it  was  given  into  his  hands. 

They  gave  her  the  name  of  Gladys,  for,  as  Alice  Hunt 
ress  said,  she  began  to  brighten  and  gladden  their  sad 
dened  hearts  and  lives  from  the  moment  of  her  coming  to 
them. 

The  Huntresses  lived  in  a  very  quiet  way,  on  an  unpre 
tentious  street  in  the  city  of  Boston.  Mr.  Huntress  had  a 
good  salary,  but  they  were  people  of  simple  tastes,  and 
had  more  of  a  desire  to  lay  by  a  snug  sum  for  declining 
years  than  to  live  extravagantly  and  make  a  show  in  the 
world. 

For  several  years  nothing  occurred  either  to  entice  or 
drive  them  out  of  the  beaten  track ;  then,  all  at  once,  Au 
gust  Huntress  conceived  a  brill;ant  idea,  put  it  in  prac 
tical  use.  secured  a  patent,  and  became  a  rich  man. 

No  other  children  came  to  share  the  love  and  care  be 
stowed  upon  Glndys,  and  the  hearts  of  her  adopted  par 
ents  were  litprally  bound  up  in  her. 

Every  possible  advantage  was  lavished  upon  her.  and 
at  the  age  of  twelve  years  she  was  a  brigrht,  beautiful  lit 
tle  maiden  with  glossy  brown  hair,  lovely  dark  blue  eyes, 
and  regular  features,  and  gave  promise  of  rare  beauty 
when  she  should  reach  maturity  a  few  years  hence. 


A  CHANGE  OF  RESIDENCE  AND  AN  AD  VENTURE.      25 

About  this  time  it  appeared  necessary  for  the  interests 
of  the  house  with  which  Mr.  Huntress  was  connected, 
that  he  should  remove  to  New  York  city. 

Accordingly,  the  beginning  of  Gladys  Huntress'  thir 
teenth  year  found  the  family  established  in  a  well-fur 
nished  mansion  in  Clinton  avenue,  one  of  the  pleasantest 
portions  of  Brooklyn,  while  Mr.  Huntress'  office  was  lo 
cated  in  Dey  street,  New  York. 

Here  Gladys  at  once  entered  the  high  school,  having 
passed  her  examinations  most  creditably,  and  giving 
promise  of  becoming  a  brilliant  scholar. 

She  dearly  loved  study,  and  asserted  that  as  soon  as 
she  should  complete  the  high-school  course,  she  should 
"  make  papa  send  her  to  Vassar  for  another  four  years,  to 
finish  her  off." 

And  now  there  occurred  an  incident  destined  to  have  a 
wonderful  influence  on  the  young  girl's  whole  future  life. 

One  afternoon  in  May,  after  school  was  over  for  the  day, 
Gladys  persuaded  her  mother  to  allow  their  coachman  to 
drive  her  over  to  New  York  to  meet  and  bring  her  father 
home  to  dinner. 

She  had  not,  as  yet,  ever  been  allowed  to  go  out  alone 
in  this  way  ;  but  Mrs.  Huntress  could  not  accompany  her 
that  day,  having  an  important  engagement  with  some 
friends ;  but  she  knew  her  driver  was  perfectly  trust 
worthy,  he  was  very  fond  of  the  young  girl,  and  she  was 
sure  that  no  harm  could  befall  her,  so  the  desired  permis 
sion  was  given,  and  the  youthful  maiden  drove  off  in  high 
glee,  and  full  of  importance  at  being  permitted  to  go  by 
herself  to  the  prreat  metropolis. 

The  Fulton  Ferry  was  safely  crossed,  and  the  carriage 
•was  rolling  slowly  up  toward  Broadway,  when  Gladys' 
attention  was  arrested  by  a  group  of  street  gamins,  who 
had  surrounded  a  boy  whom  they  appeared  to  be  jeering 
and  tormenting  in  n,  cruel  manner,  and  who  seemed  com 
pletely  dazed  by  his  position,  and  greatly  distressed  by 
the  ill-treatment  to  which  he  was  subjected. 

HP  was  a  peculiar  looking  boy,  having  a  slender  though 
perfect  form,  a  delicate,  rather  aristocratic  face,  and  a 
finely  shaped  head,  crowned  with  masses  of  light,  waving 
hair,  in  which  there  were  rich  tints  of  gold  and  brown. 

He  was  very  pale  and  his  full,  large  blue  eyes  had  a 
etrange  expression  in  their  depths — half  wild,  half  pa 
thetic — which  went  straight  to  our  young  heroine's  heart. 

He  was  neatly  but  plainly  clad,  though  his  garment! 
bad  become  somewhat  disarranged  by  the  rude  handling 


26       A  CHANGE  Ot  RESIDENCE  AND  AN  ADVENTURE. 

of  his  tormentors,  and  he  was  making  ineffectual  efforts 
to  recover  a  very  good-looking  straw  hat  that  had  been 
snatched  from  his  head  and  was  being  ruthlessly  tossed 
about  by  the  vicious  gamins,  who  were  triumphing  in  his 
distress  with  a  sort  of  fiendish  joy. 

"John,  what  are  they  doing  to  that  poor  boy?"  Gladys 
asked,  leaning  forward,  and  speaking  to  the  coachman. 

"They're  a  set  of  imps,  miss,  and  as  usual  up  to  some 
of  their  infernal  tricks,"  replied  the  man.  "It  looks  to  me 
as  if  the  lad  is  half-foolish,  and  they're  making  game  of 
him." 

"It  is  a  shame,"  cried  the  little  lady,  flushing  indig 
nantly.  "See  what  a  nice-looking  boy  he  is — so  different 
from  those  coarse,  rude  children.  Stop  John,  and  let  us 
help  him  to  get  away  from  them." 

"Indeed  miss,  I  can't;  it  wouldn't  be  at  all  proper,"  re 
turned  the  dignified  driver.  "It's  the  business  of  the  po 
lice  to  look  after  such  cases,  not  for  a  young  lady  in  your 
position." 

At  this  instant  a  mischievous  ragamuffin  seized  the 
strange  lad  by  the  hair,  giving  it  such  a  savage  pull  that 
he  cried  out  with  fright  and  pain,  while  a  shout  of  mock 
ing  delight  rang  out  from  the  motley  crew  about  him. 

Gladys  Huntress  sprang  ut>  in  her  carriage,  an  angry 
flush  surging  over  her  pretty  face. 

"John,  stop  !"  she  cried,  imperiously.  "Stop  !"  she  re 
peated,  laying  her  gloved  hand  upon  his  arm,  with  a 
touch  which  he  involuntarily  obeyed,  and,  drawing  his 
reins,  his  well-trained  horses  came  to  a  stand  close  beside 
the  group  we  have  described. 

"Boys,  what  are  yon  doing?  Let  him  alone.  Aren't  you 
ashamed  to  torment  a  boy  who  is  weaker  than  your 
selves?"  the  young  girl  exclaimed,  in  a  tone  of  authority 
and  scorn  which  for  a  moment  arrested  their  cruel  sport, 
while  they  gazed  open-mouthed  with  astonishment  at  the 
elegant  equipage  and  its  fair  occupant,  who  had  so  nobly 
espoused  the  cause  of  their  luckless  victim. 
But  it  was  only  for  a  moment. 

Everybody  knows  what  lawless  creatures  the  street 
urchins  of  New  York  are,  and  the  next  instant  a  derisive 
shout  rent  the  air  at  this  strange  and  unlooked-for  inter 
ference. 

" Hi !"  cried  one,  who  appeared  to  be  the  leader  in  the 
fray.  "  Mr.  Chalkface  must  be  some  prince  in  disguise, 
and  'ere  comes  the  princess  with  'er  coach  and  span  to  the 
rescue." 


A  CHANGE  OF  RESIDENCE  AND  AN  ADVENTURE.      27 

Another  shout  more  deafening  than  the  preceding  one 
rent  the  air  at  this  sarcastic  speech,  and  Gladys  shrank 
back  \vitn  a  look  of  disgust  on  ner  young  face. 

"Pretty  little  Miss  Uppercrust,"  the  young  rascal  inso 
lently  resumed,  encouraged  by  the  applause  around  him. 
"I  guess  it1!!  take  more'n  you  and  your  fine  feathers  to 
squelch  Nick  Tower.  See  'ere  now,  how  d'ye  like  that?" 
wherewith  he  gave  the  poor  boy  a  brutal  punch  in  the 
ribs  which  elicited  a  shriek  of  agony  from  him. 

Gladys'  eyes  blazed  wrathfully.  For  a  moment  she 
gazed  straight  into  the  face  of  the  impudent  urchin,  her 
beautiful  lips  quivering  with  contempt,  while  every  eye 
was  fixed  upon  her  with  wonder  and  curiosity. 

It  was  a  new  departure  for  a  young  and  delicate  girl  to 
face  them  like  that.  It  was  their  experience  to  have  every 
one  ot  the  better  class  shrink  from  them  in  disgust,  and 
get  out  of  their  way  as  soon  as  possible. 

Gladys  saw  that  their  attention  was  all  concentrated 
upon  her,  and  that  the  boy,  upon  whom  they  had  been 
venting  their  malice,  was  for  the  time  unheeded. 

She  saw,  too,  that  he  was  stealthily  edging  his  way  to 
ward  the  carriage,  and  a  sudden  bright  thought  flashed 
into  her  mind. 

She  bent  forward  as  if  to  speak  again,  and  the  interest 
deepened  on  those  youthful  faces  beneath  her. 

Quick  as  a  flash  she  turned  the  handle  of  the  carriage 
door,  threw  it  open,  and  with  a  significant  gesture,  she 
cried  out,  in  clear,  ringing  tones  : 

"Come  here,  boy,  quick  !  quick  !" 

The  lad  needed  no  second  bidding. 

With  one  bound  he  was  outside  the  circle  of  his  tor 
mentors  ;  another  brought  him  to  the  side  of  the  carriage, 
and  the  next  instant  he  had  sprung  within  the  vehicle, 
where  he  sank  panting  and  trembling  upon  a  rug  at  the 
young  lady's  feet. 

The  door  was  immediately  shut  and  fastened.  Gladys' 
face  was  glowing  with  triumph  over  the  success  of  her 
ruse,  while,  at  an  authoritative  chirrup  from  the  coach 
man,  who,  sooth  to  say,  had  keenly  enjoyed  the  spirited 
and  courageous  attitude  assumed  by  his  young  mistress 
in  defense  of  the  persecuted  boy,  the  horses  started  on, 
leaving  the  group  of  gamins  speechless  and  spell-bound 
with  amazement  at  this  unexpected  master-stroke. 

It  was  only  for  a  minute,  however ;  the  next  rage,  at 
having  been  outwitted  by  a  girl,  and  that  one  of  the  hated 
favorites  of  fortune,  superseded  their  astonishment, 


28       A  CHANGE  OF  RESIDENCE  AND  AN  ADVEA'TUltK 

a  succession  of  frantic  yells  burst  upon  their  ears,  while 
as  witn  one  mind  they  stooped  to  gather  mud  from  the 
gutter,  rolled  it  into  balls,  and  then  sent  their  filthy  mis 
siles  flying  after  the  receding  carriage  and  its  occu 
pants. 

Gladys  did  not  pay  the  slightest  heed  to  this  attack, 
though  one  vile  mass  came  plump  against  her  pretty  sun 
shade  where  it  adhered  for  a  moment  and  then  rolled  into 
the  street,  but  leaving  an  unsightly  stain  where  it  had 
Struck  upon  the  rich,  glossy  silk. 

The  irate  little  wrenches  would  have  followed  up  their 
assault  had  not  a  policeman  suddenly  made  his  appear 
ance  upon  the  scene,  when  they  took  to  their  heels,  scat 
tering  and  disappearing  around  a  corner,  like  a  flock  of 
frightened  sheep,  quicker  than  it  has  taken  to  relate  the 
occurrence. 

Gladys  gave  a  sigh  of  relief  as  the  noise  and  pelting 
ceased,  and  then  she  turned  her  attention  to  the  luckless 
wait  whom  she  had  befriended  in  his  hour  of  need. 

"Get  up,  boy,"  she  said,  kindly,  "they  cannot  hurt  you 
now." 

But  as  he  still  crouched,  trembling  and  frightened,  at 
her  feet,  she  turned  to  the  coachman  and  said  : 

"John,  help  him  up,  he  is  too  frightened  to  move." 

"Come,  my  lad,  you've  nothing  to  fear  now,"  the  driver 
remarked,  encouragingly,  and  reaching  over  the  back  of 
his  seat  he  took  the  boy  by  the  arm  and  lifted  him  from 
the  floor,  placing  him  opposite  his  young  mistress. 

He  glared  wildly  about  him  at  first,  but  as  his  eyes  fell 
upon  Glad  3*8'  sympathetic  face  the  fear  faded  from  them, 
and  he  seemed  reassured. 

Then  all  at  once  he  put  his  hand  to  his  head  in  a  dis 
tressed  way,  and  called  out : 

"M'ha!  m'ha!" 

"What  does  he  mean,  John?  Can  they  have  hurt  him, 
do  you  think?"  Gladys  asked,  looking  perplexed,  and  re 
garding  the  boy's  blank,  though  beautiful,  face  with  anx 
iety. 

"I  don't  know,  miss ;  perhaps  it's  his  hat  he's  troubled 
about." 

The  lad  turned  quickly  at  the  word  hat,  nodded  hig 
head  emphatically,  and  showed  two  rows  of  white,  hand 
some  teeth  in  a  broad,  satisfied  pmile. 

"M'ha  !  m'ha  !"  he  repeated,  and  then  there  followed  a 
lot  of  gibberish  that  was  wholly  unintelligible  to  his  list 
eners. 


A  CHANGE  OF  RESIDENCE  AND  AN  ADVENTURE.       29 

"How  strangely  he  appears!"  Gladys  exclaimed,  re 
garding  him  curiously. 

"He  do,  indeed,  miss.  The  poor  chap  is  an  idiot,  or  I'm 
much  mistaken." 

"An  idiot !  Oh,  how  dreadful !  Poor  boy,"  cried  GlaJys, 
pityingly.  Then  she  added,  soothingly:  "Never  mind 
your  hat,  papa  shall  buy  you  another." 

The  young  stranger  nodded  contentedly,  as  if  he  under 
stood  ner,  while  his  great  blue  eyes  were  fixed  earnestly 
and  confidingly  on  her  face. 

"  What  is  your  name  and  where  do  you  live?"  contin 
ued  the  young  girl,  wondering  what  she  should  do  with 
him  now  that  she  had  rescued  him  from  his  persecutors, 
if  he  could  not  tell  where  he  belonged. 

The  only  answer  to  this  query  was  a  senseless  smile, 
accompanied  by  a  low  crooning  sound  of  contentment. 

"Oh,  dear  !  can't  you  talk  at  all?  What  is  your  name? 
you  must  tell  me  or  I  shall  not  know  where  to  take  you," 
said  Gladys,  beginning  to  look  greatly  disturbed,  and 
•wondering  what  would  be  the  result  of  this  strange  ad 
venture. 

The  boy  reached  out  a  white,  slender  hand  and  touched 
the  girl  caressingly  on  the  cheek,  at  the  same  time  mak 
ing  a  sound  indicative  of  pleasure  and  admiration,  but 
uttering  no  intelligible  word. 

It  was  evident  that  he  was  not  only  simple-minded,  but 
that  there  must  be  some  paralysis  of  the  vocal  organs  as 
well,  that  prevented  his  talking. 

A  flush  sprang  to  the  young  girl's  face,  and  a  strange 
thrill  pervaded  her  at  the  touch  of  thoso  delicate  fingers. 

"He  is  the  most  beautiful  boy  I  ever  saw,"  she  said, 
"but,  oh  !  how  dreadful  for  him  not  to  know  anything  !  I 
wonder  who  he  is,  John  !" 

"I'm  sure  I  can't  say,  miss,"  repleid  the  man,  looking 
perplexed  and  somewhat  annoyed. 

"How  old  do  you  think  he  nan  be?" 

John  gave  a  long  look  at  the  young  stranger. 

"He's  small  of  his  age,  miss,  but  I  reckon  he  must  be 
older  than  yourself." 

"Older  than  I!  Oh!  I  do  not  think  that  can  be  possi 
ble,"  Gladys  exclaimed,  attentively  studying  the  strangely 
attractive  yet  vacant  countenance  before  her. 

"What  shall  wo  do  with  him,  John?"  she  inquired, 
after  a  moment  of  thoughtful  silence. 

"I  think  we'd  best  take  him  straight  to  the  office,  tell 
the  master  all  about  him,  and  he'll  settle  the  matter." 


30  A  QUA  VE  CONS  UL  TA  TI029. 

"Yes,  I  believe  that  will  be  the  best  plan,"  Gladys  re 
turned,  looking  greatly  relieved.  "Papa  will  know  just 
•what  to  do.  But,"  bending  forward  and  laying  her  hand 
on  the  boy's  arm  to  attract  his  attention  more  fully,  while 
she  spoke  slowly  and  very  distinctly,  "can't  you  tell  me 
where  you  live,  boy?  Do  try,  and  then  we  can  take  you 
directly  to  your  home." 

The  lad  looked  up  with  a  most  confiding  smile  at  her, 
gently  took  her  hand  from  his  arm,  clasped  it  tenderly  in 
both  his  own,  and  murmured,  in  an  exceedingly  rich  and 
mellow  tone,  some  strange  sounds. 

"Oh,  how  sorry  lam  for  him  !"  Gladys  said,  with  start 
ing  tears:  "I  wonder  if  he  has  any  father  or  mother, 
brothers  or  sisters.  It  would  break  my  heart  to  have  a 
lovely  brother  like  this,  and  not  have  him  know  any 
thing.  Hurry  on,  John,  please  ;  I  am  anxious  to  know 
what  papa  can  do  for  him." 


CHAPTEE   V. 

A  GRAVE  CONSULTATION. 

Arriving  at  Mr.  Huntress'  office  in  Dey  street,  Gladys 
alighted,  bidding  John  detain  the  boy  in  the  carriage  un 
til  she  could  bring  her  father. 

She  ran  lightly  up  the  stairs,  and  found  that  gentleman 
just  on  the  point  of  leaving  to  return  home,  but  evidently 
very  much  pleased  to  have  his  daughter  come  for  him. 

She  related  what  had  occurred  on  her  way  over  to  the 
city,  and  he  listened  attentively  to  her  story  ;  but  his 
face  grew  grave  as  she  proceeded,  for  he  was  so  fond  and 
careful  of  her,  that  he  could  not  endure  the  thought  of 
her  running  into  any  danger. 

"I  fear  you  have  been  unwise,  my  darling,  in  taking 
this  boy  into  the  carriage  with  you,"  he  said,  drawing  her 
fondly  toward  him,  and  bending  down  to  kiss  the  bright, 
eager  face  upturned  to  him.  "He  may  have  come  from 
some  fever-infested  locality  ;  you  should  have  given  him 
into  the  care  of  a  policeman." 

"But,  papa,  there  was  no  policeman  near  at  the  time, 
and  the  poor  boy  was  so  frightened  and  distressed  I  hadn't 
the  heart  to  make  him  get  out  of  the  carriage,  at  least  un 
til  we  could  get  beyond  the  reach  of  those  rude  boys.  I 
supposed,  of  course,  he  would  tell  us  where  he  lived,  so 


A  OKA  VE  CONS  UL  TA  TION.  31 

that  we  could   take  him   home,  but  we  could  not  under 
stand  a  word  that  he  said." 

"  Perhaps  he  is  some  foreigner, "  suggested  Mr.  Hunt 
ress. 

"  No,  I  think  not,  for  he  seemed  to  know  what  we  said 
to  him.  He  isn't  like  thoae  other  boys — he  looks  as  if  he 
must  belong  to  very  nice,  respectable  people.  His  clothes 
are  very  plain,  but  as  clean  as  can  be — even  his  hands 
and  nails  are  as  white  and  cloan  as  mine,  which  is  not 
usual  in  a  boy,  you  know.  Come  and  see  him,  papa.  I 
know  you  will  pity  him,"  pleaded  Gladys,  with  a  very 
sweet  and  sympathetic  face. 

She  slipped  her  hand  within  her  father's  arm  and  drew 
him  with  gentle  force  out  of  his  office  and  down  the  stairs 
to  the  carriage,  where  John  sat,  looking  a  trifle  anxious 
and  as  if  he  feared  a  reproof  for  allowing  a  strange  child 
in  his  master's  elegant  equipage  with  his  idolized 
daughter.  > 

Mr.  Huntress  was  struck  with  the  refined,  even  aristo 
cratic  appearance  of  the  boy  the  moment  his  eyes  fell 
upon  him. 

He  instantly  recognized  the  wonderful  beauty  of  his 
face,  remarked  the  shape  and  color  of  his  eyes,  which, 
had  they  been  lighted  by  the  fire  of  intelligence,  would 
have  been  his  chief  charm.  His  frame  was  slight,  but  he 
was  finely  formed,  with  shapely  hands  and  feet.  His 
head  was  rather  massive  for  his  body  and  of  that  square 
structure,  with  a  broad,  full  brow  and  an  unusual  height 
above  the  ears,  which  generally  proclaims  a  large  brain 
and  rare  intellectual  capacity,  and  yet  he  was  unmistak 
ably  an  idiot !  one  look  into  those  blank,  expressionless 
eyes  but  too  plainly  told  that. 

M>\  Huntress  entered  the  carriage,  after  assisting 
Gladys  to  her  seat,  and  spoke  kindly  and  cheerfully  to 
the  boy. 

He  made  no  answer,  but  fixed  his  great  eyes  earnestly 
upon  the  gentleman's  face  while  he  shrank  close  to  Gladys, 
as  if  he  instinctively  realized  that  she  was  his  stanch 
friend,  and  would  protect  him  against  all  evil. 

"  I  do  not  wonder  that  you  were  interested  in  him, 
Gladys,"  said  Mr.  Huntress,  regarding  the  stranger 
gravely,  "he  is  peculiarly  winning  in  appearance,  though 
evidently  very  simple  in  mind.'' 

"Do  you  suppose  he  was  always  so,  papa«"  GJcdyi 
asked. 

"It  does  not  seem  possible,  for,  aside  from  tl:;.;  vnti  it 


33  A  GRAVE  CONSULTATION. 

look  in  his  eyes,  his  face  has  a  wonderfully  intelligent 
expression,  especially  when  it  is  in  repose.  Can't  you 
make  him  say  anything?" 

"No,  sir;  he  tries  to  talk,  but  I  cannot  understand 
what  he  means." 

"Ask  him  a  question,  Gladys,"  said  her  father. 

"Boy,  you  have  lost  your  hat — would  you  like  a  new 
one?"  the  young  girl  questioned. 

"M'ha!  m'ha !"  he  instantly  answered,  putting  his 
hand  to  his  head,  thus  showing  as  before  that  he  had 
comprehended  something  of  what  was  said  to  him. 

Mr.  Huntress'  face  lighted. 

"Try  something  else,'"  he  commanded. 

"  Where  do  you  live,  boy  ?"  Gladys  inquired. 

This  query,  like  the  previous  one,  only  elicited  a  per 
fect  storm  of  unintelligible  pounds. 

"  Do  you  wish  to  go  home  to  your  friends?"  Gladys  con 
tinued,  making  another  effort. 

But  the  only  response  was  a  short,  sharp  ejaculation  of 
pain,  while  the  lad  seized  her  hand  and  laid  his  cheek 
affectionately  against  it,  looking  appealingly  into  her 
face,  as  if  thus  to  signify  that  he  did  not  wish  to  leave 
her. 

"I  cannot  understand  him  at  all,  papa,  only  it  seems 
as  if  he  wishes  to  stay  with  me,"  said  Gladys,  with  a  sigh. 

Mr.  Huntress  thought  a  moment,  then  he  turned  to  the 
coachman  and  said  : 

"Drive  home,  John." 

"Oh,  papa,  are  you  going  to  take  him  home  with  us?" 
cried  Gladys,  eagerly. 

"Yes;  for  to-night.  I  find  myself  strangely  interested 
in  him,  and  I  have  not  the  heart  to  turn  him  adrift  upon 
the  street.  He  evidently  belongs  to  a  good  family,  and 
has  probably  strayed  from  home  and  got  lost.  We  will 
care  for  him  until  we  can  learn  who  his  friends  are,  and 
can  return  him  to  them,"  Mr.  Huntress  replied,  and  they 
then  proceeded  directly  home  with  their  strange  protege, 
where  Mrs.  Huntress  received  them  with  considerable 
aurprisa,  although  her  sympathies  were  also  soon  enlisted 
in  behalf  of  their  charge,  and  she  bestowed  the  kindest 
of  care  and  attention  upon  the  unfortunate  waif  so  singu 
larly  thrown  into  her  family. 

Mr.  Huntress  caused  an  advertisement  to  be  inserted 
in  the  papers  the  next  morning,  inquiring  for  the  friends 
of  the  wanderer. 

But  a  week  passed  and  he  received  not  one  word  in  re- 


A  GRAVE  CONSULTATION.  33 

ply,  and  thus  his  identity  remained  a  profound  mystery. 

Meantime,  the  object  of  these  inquiries  was  so  docile 
and  tractable,  so  affectionate  in  his  manner  toward 
every  member  of  the  household  ;  ho  was  so  trustful, 
appearing  to  recognize  instinctively  that  they  were  kind 
friends ;  he  was  so  exceptionally  nice  about  his  person 
and  habits,  and  so  gentle  in  his  manner,  that  they  all  be 
came  greatly  attached  to  him,  and  they  felt  more  and 
more  convinced  that  he  belonged  to  some  family  of  good 
blood  and  high  position,  in  spite  of  the  very  com 
mon  clothing  which  he  wore,  and  his  imbecile  condi 
tion. 

There  vras  nothing  about  him  to  give  the  least  clew  to 
his  identity.  Every  article  he  had  on  was  thoroughly 
examined  to  try  to  find  some  name ;  every  pocket  was 
searched  with  the  same  purpose,  and  at  last  Mr.  Huntress 
began  to  believe  that  he  must  hare  been  brought  from  a 
distance  to  New  York  by  some  person  or  persons,  and 
there  willfully  deserted  for  some  secret  reason,  with  the 
hope,  perhaps,  that  the  authorities  would  care  for  him 
and  have  him  sent  to  some  institution  for  weak-minded, 
people. 

This  view  of  the  affair  made  him  very  indignant  toward 
the  supposed  perpetrators  of  the  deed,  and  tenfold  more 
tender  toward  the  unfortunate  victim  of  such  an  in 
human  transaction,  and  one  day,  upon  returning  from 
his  business  in  New  York,  he  was  accompanied  by  one  of 
the  most  skillful  physicians  in  the  city. 

To  him  the  pitiable  but  interesting  innocent  was  sub 
mitted  for  examination. 

The  noted  M.  D.  at  once  became  absorbed  in  and  enthus 
iastic  over  the  peculiar  case. 

"He  would  be  a  remarkable  boy  but  for  the  torpidity 
of  his  intellect,"  he  asserted.  "  He  was  not  born  so.  Hia 
present  condition  was  caused  either  by  some  acute  dis 
ease  of  the  brain,  or  by  some  injury  to  it — the  latter, 
most  probably." 

"Possibly  a  great  wrong  has  been  perpetrated,  and  he 
has  been  deserted  in  this  mysterious  way  to  conceal  the 
deed,"  suggested  Mr.  Huntress,  gravely. 

"I  should  not  be  at  all  surprised."  returned  the  physi 
cian.  "He  may  be  t,h«  heir  to  some  1 '\rsro  property,  and 
jealousy  has  brought  him  to  this  pass.  Everything  about 
him.  save  his  idiocy,  betrays  that  he  came  of  a  refined 
parentage.  His  physical  condition  is  sound,  although  he 
is  not  fully  developed  as  he  should  be,  but  that  is  owing 


34  A  GRAVE  CONSULTATION. 

undoubtedly,  to  his   mental  incapacity.     He  is  evidently 
about  fifteen  years  of  age." 

All  this  was  the  result  of  but  a  superficial  examination. 
A  more  critical  one  confirmed  one  of  the  doctor's  the 
ories  :  there  proved  to  be  a  depression  of  the  skull  which 
must  have  been  caused  by  some  accident  to  or  violent 
blow  upon  the  head. 

"It  was  done  a  number  of  years  ago,"  the  learned  «ian 
affirmed,  "and  that  produced  a  paralysis  of  the  brain 
and  also  of  the  nerves  that  control  his  organs  of  speech. 

"Is  there  any  help  for  him — can  he  be  restored  ?"  Mr. 
Huntress  inquired,  eagerly. 

"Possibly,  by  an  operation  ;  but  it  would  be  attended 
with  considerable  risk." 

"  Would  the  risk  be  so  great,  that  were  the  boy  your 
own  son,  you  would  hesitate  to  attempt  it  ?" 

"No;  I  should  have  it  done  at  once.  Still,  the  trouble 
is  of  such  long  standing  that  I  could  not  answer  for  the 
success  of  the  operation  in  restoring  the  boy  to  his  nor 
mal  condition,  even  should  he  survive  the  shock  to  his 
system  ;  and  yet " 

"Well  ?"  almost  impatiently  questioned  Mr.  Huntress. 
He  was  becoming  greatly  excited  over  the  matter. 

Somehow  a  conviction  had  taken  possession  of  his 
heart  that  such  an  operation  would  result  favorably,  and 
he  longed  to  have  his  hopes  confirmed. 

"It  would  be  a  great  triumph  of  science  if  the  trial 
could  be  made,  and  he  should  have  his  reasoning  powers 
restored,"  returned  the  physician,  gravely. 

"  Would  he  be  able  to  talk  ?  Would  his  power  of  speech 
be  regained  ?" 

"Yes,  I  believe  so.  I  suspect  that  a  portion  of  the 
skull,  which  was  broken  at  the  time  of  his  injury,  is 
pressing  upon  his  brain,  causing  not  only  loss  of  memory, 
but  also  a  partial  paralysis  of  the  hypoglossal  nerve.  If 
this  pressure  can  be  relieved,  and  the  piece  of  skull  lifted 
to  its  place,  or  removed  altogether,  and  the  aperture 
trepanned,  I  see  no  reason  why  he  should  not  recover  the 
full  use  of  all  his  faculties"  the  doctor  explained. 

"I  wish  it  might  be  done.  Doctor,  I  wonder  if  it  would 
be  right  for  me  to  assume  the  responsibility  of  ordering 
this  operation  to  be  performed, "  said  Mr.  Huntress, 
reflectively. 

"It  would  be  a  great  blessing  to  the  boy." 

"Yes  ;  provided  all  went  well." 

"And  an  otherwise  inexplicable  mystery  might  thus  be 


A  GRAVE  CONSULTATION.'  35 

solved  ;  he  would  doubtless  be  able  to  tell  who  he  is, 
an<i  thus  you  could  restore  him  to  his  friends." 

"Dr.  Scherz,  will  you  share  the  responsibility — sim 
ply  that — of  this  matter  with  me?"  Mr.  Huntress  gravely 
asked,  after  thinking  deeply  for  several  moments. 

"I  feel  rather  delicate  about  giving  you  an  affirmative 
answer  to  that  question,"  the  physician  replied,  "if  lam 
expected  to  have  charge  of  the  case.  I  might  be  severely 
criticised  and  accused  or'  a  desire  to  experiment  for  the 
benefit  of  my  profession,  if  there  should  be  a  fatal  result." 

""Yea,  perhaps;  but,  on  the  other  hand,  you  would  ac 
quire  fame  if  the  boy  was  restored.*1 

"Undoubtedly."  And  the  eminent  physician's  eyes 
glowed  with  eagerness. 

"Well,  the  matter  stands  like  this,"  said  Mr.  Huntress, 
after  another  thoughtful  pause.  "I  have  done  my  best  to 
find  the  lad's  friends,  but  there  is  evidently  no  one,  at 
least  in  Brooklyn  or  New  York  who  will  claim  him.  I 
am  unaccountably  interested  in  him.  I  will  not  send  him 
to  an  insane  asylum.  I  cannot  cast  him  forth  again  upon 
the  street  to  wander  about  at  the  mercy  of  the  rabble. 
I  have  resolved  to  care  for  him  as  I  would  wish  a  son  of 
mine  cared  for  under  similar  circumstances,  and  yet  his 
presence,  in  this  imbecile  state,  is  a  constant  pain  to  me. 
What  shall  I  do?" 

"If  you  intend  to  give  him  a  father's  care,  I  see  no  rea 
son  why  you  should  not  exercise  a  parent's  judgment 
and  authority  in  the  matter  of  his  possible  restoration," 
Dr  .Scherz  responded,  thoughtfully. 

"Then  will  yon  take  charge  of  the  case  and  treat  it  as 
your  judgment  and  skill  dictate?  The  expense  and  risk 
shall  all  be  mine,  yours  the  reward  and  fame  if  a  cure  is 
effected." 

Dr.  Scherz  did  not  reply  to  this  request  for  several 
minutes.  He  appeared  to  be  considering  and  reviewing 
the  matter  in  all  its  points,  and  evidently  regarded  the 
undprtaking  as  one  of  grave  responsibility  and  im 
portance. 

At  length  he  looked  up,  and  Mr.  Huntress  was  more 
encouraged  by  the  expression  on  his  pale,  thoughtful 
fare,  than  he  had  yet  been  over  anything  that  he  had  snid 
about  the  case.  He  felt  sure  that  the  man  would  act  con 
scientiously,  and  exert  himself  to  the  extent  of  his  skill. 

"I  think  I  will  atterrpt  it."  he  paid,  slowly.  "But  be 
fore  I  do,  T  would  like  to  consult  with  a  friend  in  the  pro 
fession,  and  get  his  opinion  upon  the  undertaking.  I  wiH 


,i6  THE  DEVELOPMENTS  OF  SEVEHAL  YEAVS. 

see  you  again  in  a  few  days ;   meantime,  do  your  best  to 
build  up  the  boy's  strength  with  a  nourishing  diet." 
With  this,  the  two  men  separated. 


CHAPTEK  VI. 

THE  DEVELOPMENTS  OF  SEVERAL  TEARS. 

A  full  week  passed  before  Mr.  Huntress  heard  any 
thing  further  from  Dr.  Scherz,  and  it  was  a  week  of 
anxiety  and  unrest  for  him. 

At  the  erd  of  that  time  the  physician  went  again  to  see 
the  Huntress  protege,  taking  a  noted  hospital  surgeon 
with  him. 

After  another  protracted  and  critical  examination,  the 
two  gentlemen  decided  to  undertake  the  operation  to 
gether. 

The  boy  was  removed  to  a  hospital  where  diseases  of 
the  brain  were  treated,  and  there  the  delicate  and  hazard 
ous  operation  was  performed. 

The  result  proved  that  Dr.  Scherz  had  thoroughly 
understood  the  case — that  his  theory  was  the  correct  one. 

A  severe  blow  upon  the  head,  years  previous,  fractured' 
the  skull,  a  portion  of  which  was  crowded  in  upon  the 
brain,  the  pressure  causing  temporary  paralysis  and 
idiocy,  also  loss  of  energy  in  the  hypoglossal  or  lingual 
nerve. 

This  piece  of  bone  was  removed,  the  brain  relieved  of 
the  unnatural  pressure,  and  the  result  was  both  wonder 
ful  and  startling. 

Before  the  patient  had  fully  recovered  from  the  effects 
of  the  ether  which  had  been  administered  to  him,  memory 
and  speech  both  reasserted  their  functions  by  completing 
a  sentence  which  had  evidently  been  interrupted  at  the 
time  of  the  accident  which  had  deprived  the  boy  of  their 
use. 

" tell  my  papa  !"  were  the  words  which  fell  upon 

the  ears  of  the  startled  surgeons,  while  the  large  blue 
eyes  of  their  patient  slowly  unclosed  and  gazed  up  into 
the  faces  bending  over  him,  the  light  of  reason  once  more 
gleaning  in  their  azure  depths. 

"What  will  you  tell  papa?"  asked  Dr.  Scherz,  in  a 
quiet  tone,  while  the  other  surgeon  drew  quickly  out  of 
eight. 


TEE  DEVELOPMENTS  OF  SEVERAL  TEARS.  37 

"Jack  struck  Margery,"  was  the  instant  reply. 

"  Who  is  your  papa,  my  boy?" 

"Why,  he's  papa;  don't  you  know? — my  good  papa." 
was  the  response,  while  a  puzzled  look  shot  over  the  lad's 
pale  t'aco. 

Dr.  Scherz   knew  from  his  manner  of  speech   that  he 
must  have  been  very  young — not  more  than   five  years  of 
age — at  the  time  of  his  injury,  and  when  that  great  dark-' 
ness  had  so  suddenly  enveloped  him. 

"Yes,  your  good  papa,"  said  the  doctor,  soothingly. 
"Now  go  to  sleep  like  a  man." 

"I'm  Margery's  little  man — where  is  Margery?"  he 
questioned,  drowsily,  and  closing  his  eyes,  he  was  soon 
in  a  profound  slumber. 

The  two  physicians  watched  him  in  silence  for  a  few 
moments,  then  they  looked  up  into  each  other's  face ;  eye 
held  eye  for  an  instant  with  an  eloquent  glance,  the  next 
their  hands  met  in  a  prolonged  and  hearty  clasp  across 
their  patient,  for  they  knew  that,  if  all  went  well,  they 
had  succeeded  in  an  operation  that  would  give  them  a 
famous  reputation  for  all  time. 

When  the  boy  awoke  again  he  called  lustily  for  "Mar 
gery,"  and  a  kind  and  motherly  nurse  was  at  once  ap 
pointed  to  care  for  him. 

He  seemed  to  know,  however,  that  she  was  not  "Mar 
gery,"  although  he  appeared  to  take  to  her  and  was  con 
tent  to  have  her  attend  him. 

"Where's  Jack?"  he  asked  of  Dr.  Scherz,  who  still 
remained  with  him,  determined  to  watch  him  most  care 
fully. 

"Jack  who?"  he  asked. 

"Why,  Margery's  Jack  ;  but  he  isn't  good  like  Margery," 
from  which  the  physician  inferred  that  "Jack"  must  have 
been  Margery's  husband,  and  not  an  over  kind  one  either. 

"Oh,  Jack  has  gone  away,"  he  anwered,  carelessly. 
"What  is  your  name,  my  boy?" 

"I'm  Geoffrey,  sir." 

"Geoffrey  what?" 

"Why,  Geoffrey  Dale — don't  you  knew  ?  I'm  papa  Dale's 
own  boy." 

"Where  is  papa?" 

"Gone  away  off,"  was  the  reply,  accompanied  by  a 
grieved  look,  "and  he  won't  come  again  for  ever  so  long.*1 

Dr.  Sehorz  would  not  press  him  further;  he  knew 
that  they  must  be  patient.  Memory  had  lain  dormant  for 
so  long,  and  the  child  had  been  so  young  at  the  time  of 


38  THE  DEVELOPMENTS  OF  SEVERAL  YEARS. 

losing  it,  that  it  was  doubtful  if  they  could  ever  learn 
very  much  regarding  his  history. 

Weeks  passed,  and  Geoffrey  was  at  last  pronounced 
well  enough  to  return  to  the  beautiful  home  awaiting 
him  in  Brooklyn. 

He  had  recovered  without  a  single  drawback.  The 
light  of  reason  gleamed  in  his  eyes,  and  he  had  the  full 
use  of  all  the  organs  of  speech. 

But,  although  the  doctors  had  decided  that  he  must  be 
fully  fifteen  years  of  age,  notwithstanding  his  growth 
had  been  somewhat  stunted  by  the  effects  of  his  injury, 
mentally  he  was  little  better  than  an  infant. 

He  talked  like  a  child  of  five  years,  and  acted  like 
one. 

But  very  little  could  be  learned  of  his  previous  life. 
It  was  evident  that  he  had  been  living  with  a  woman 
named  Margery — who,  probably,  was  his  nurse — and  a 
man  named  Jack,  possibly  the  woman's  husband. 

Margery  he  had  loved,  and  he  often  called  for  her  now. 
Jack  he  had  feared,  and  looked  frightened  whenever  his 
name  was  mentioned. 

Of  the  injury  which  had  deprived  him  of  his  memory 
he  seemed  to  be  able  to  tell  nothing,  although  he  affirmed 
that  Jack  had  struck  and  tried  to  choke  Margery,  and  he 
wanted  to  "lick  the  naughty  man." 

Of  his  mother  he  knew  absolutely  nothing  ;  his  father 
was  not  much  more  than  a  name  to  him,  although  he 
spoke  of  him  as  his  "good  pnpa,"  while  he  could  not  tell 
anything  whatever  about  the  place  where  his  former 
home  had  been,  and  kneAv  nothing  of  the  circumstances  of 
his  being  in  New  York. 

He  was  very  quick  to  comprehend,  however,  now  that 
be  once  more  had  his  reason,  and  readily  adapted  him 
self  to  his  new  surroundings. 

Mr.  Huntress  resolved  to  adopt  him  legally,  and  do  all 
in  his  power  to  atone  for  the  long  interval  of  darkness 
and  mental  incapacity  to  which  he  had  been  so  strangely 
doomed. 

Geoffrey  beeran  at  once  to  regard  his  new  friends  with 
the  greatest  confidence  and  affection,  while  toward  Gladys 
he  manifested  the  most  devoted  love. 

She,  on  her  part,  regarded  him  with  tenderest  com 
passion  and  sympathy,  for,  in  spite  of  his  remarkable 
beauty  and  natural  ability,  he  was  truly  a  pitiable  object, 
with  the  simple  mind  and  manners  of  a  child  five  years 
of  age  in  a  body  of  fifteen  ;  for  he  soon  began  to  develop 


THE  DEVELOPMENTS  OF  SEVERAL  TEARS.  39 

rapidly,  physically,  after  his  restoration,  and  bade  fair  to 
be.  a  man  of  splendid  physique. 

He  was  not  long  in  realizing  that  he  was  far  from  be 
ing  like  other  boys  of  his  age,  and  he  began  to  be  very 
sensitive  over  the  fact — to  grow  grave  and  thoughtful, 
and  sometimes  positively  unhappy. 

"Why  can't  I  be  like  other  boys?"  he  once  asked  of  Mr. 
Huntress,  with  a  perplexed  look  on  his  fine  face,  and  the 
gentleman  kindly  explained  that,  when  he  had  been  very 
young,  some  one  or  something  must  have  struck  him  a 
blow  on  the  head  which  had  injured  his  brain,  so  that  for 
years  it  had  been  the  same  as  if  sound  asleep,  and  had 
only  just  waked  up  again  ;  that  his  body  had  grown,  but 
his  mind  had  not. 

"Oh,  I  know,"  Geoffrey  returned,  with  a  startled  look, 
a  new  light  coming  into  his  eyes.  "Jack  threw  a  great 
stick  of  wood  at  me." 

"What  made  him  do  that?"  Mr.  Huntress  asked, 
eagerly. 

The  boy  bent  his  head,  and  seemed  trying  to  recall  the 
events  of  that  dim  past. 

"He  came  into  the  kitchen  with  a  dreadful  red  face," 
he  said,  "  and  he  was  very  ugly  to  Margery — I  can't  think 
about  what.  He  put  his  hands  around%her  nf  ck,  and  she 
screamed.  I  ran  up  and  struck  him,  and  told  him  I'd  tell 
my  papa,  and — that's  all  I  know,"  he  concluded,  with  a 
sigh. 

Mr.  Huntress  could  imagine  that  the  man  was  intoxi 
cated,  and  being  in  a  frenzy,  he  had  perhaps  seized  a 
stick  of  wood  from  the  hearth,  thrown  it  at  the  child,  and 
knocked  him  senseless. 

"  What  was  Jack's  other  name  ?"  he  asked. 

"Jack — Jack — "  Geoffrey  began,  then  shook  his  head 
hopelessly.  "I  can't  tell,"  he  concluded  ;  and  Mr.  Hun 
tress  felt  that  it  only  annoyed  him,  and  it  would  be  use 
less  to  try  to  find  out  anything  definite  from  him,  so  he 
let  the  matter  drop. 

One  day,  after  Geoffrey  had  been  with  the  family  some 
three  months,  he  came  in  from  the  street  looking  flushed 
and  angry. 

Seeking  Gladys  he  besought  her  most  piteously  to  teach 
him  to  read. 

Upon  inquiring  what  prompted  the  request,  she  found 
that  Geoffrey  had  been  attracted  by  a  glaring  placard 
that  had  been  pasted  up  somewhere  on  a  building,  and 
had  asked  some  boys  what  it  was. 


40  THE  DEVELOPMENTS  OF  SEVERAL  TEARS. 

This  had  at  once  betrayed  his  woeful  ignorance,  for  if 
he  had  even  known  his  letters,  he  could  at  least  have 
made  out  something  of  the  nature  of  the  bill,  and  they 
had  tormented  him  unmercifully  for  being  a  simpleton. 

Gladys  at  once  procured  a  primer  and  set  herself  at 
work  to  teach  him. 

He  proved  to  be  a  most  diligent  pupil,  with  great  per 
severance  and  a  wonderful  power  for  memorizing,  for  in 
a  month  he  had  mastered  the  whole  of  its  contents. 

Mr.  Huntress  was  astonished  at  his  progress,  and 
wanted  to  put  him  at  once  into  school. 

But  Geoffrey,  who  was  developing  rapidly  in  every 
way,  shrank  from  the  proposal,  and  begged  his  Uncle 
August,  as  he  had  been  taught  to  call  Mr.  Huntress,  to 
allow  him  to  study  at  home. 

"They  Avill  laugh  at  me  at  school,  for  I  shall  have  to  go 
into  classes  with  little  boys  only  five  or  six  years  old," 
he  pleaded,  with  a  crimson  face. 

"  But  you  must  go  to  school  some  time,  and  you  will 
have  to  begin  with  boys  younger  than  yourself,"  Mr. 
Huntress  replied. 

"Won't  you  keep  on  teaching  me,  Gladys?"  Geoffrey 
asked,  appealingly.  "  I  will  study  hard  and  never  trouble 
you  by  not  having  my  lessons,  and  perhaps  I  can  catch 
up  with  big  boys  by  and  by." 

Gladys  said  she  would  keep  on  with  him.  But  she  was 
not  allowed  to  do  so,  although  she  often  gave  him  help 
in  many  ways. 

She  had  her  own  studies  to  attend  to  and  was  working 
hard  at  them,  therefore  Mr.  Huntress  would  not  allow 
her  to  tax  herself  any  further,  and  so  a  tutor  was  engaged 
to  come  to  the  house  every  day  to  attend  to  Master 
Geoffrey's  lessons. 

The  boy  was  true  to  his  promise.  He  studied  dili 
gently,  and  his  tutor  never  had  occasion  to  utter  a  word 
of  complaint  over  ill-prepared  lessons.  Geoffrey  seemed 
to  realize  more  and  more  how  far  behind  other  boys  of 
his  own  age  he  was,  and  with  his  pride  and  ambition 
thus  aroused,  no  task  seemed  too  difficult  to  accomplish, 
if  it  would  only  serve  to  help  him  to  overtake  them. 

Another  thing  troubled  him  exceedingly.  He  had 
learned  that  Gladys  was  two  years  younger  than  himself, 
and  yet  she  was  nearly  half  through  the  high  school, 
while  he  was  simply  learning  his  alphabet.  The  thought 
overwhelmed  him  with  shame  and  pain. 

"  Gladys  is  a  girl  younger  than  I,  and  I  am  years  and 


THE  DEVELOPMENTS  OF  SEVERAL  YEARS.  41 

years  behind  her,  when  I  should  be  ever  so  far  beyond 
her,"  he  said  one  day  to  Mrs.  Huntress,  when  he  had  be- 
eome  almost  discouraged  over  one  of  his  lessons,  and  had 
gone  to  her  for  help  and  sympathy. 

"But  Gladys  has  always  been  at  school  and  you  have 
not,  Geoff,"  returned  his  aunt,  kindly.  "Go  and  ask  her 
to  show  you  about  these  problems ;  she  can  help  you 
much  better  than  1,  for  they  are  fresher  in  her  mind." 

But  the  proud  boy  had  all  at  once  grown  keenly  sensi 
tive,  and  would  not  seek  the  young  girl's  aid.  He  pre 
ferred  to  fight  the  battle  out  by  himself,  rather  than  be 
coached  by  a  girl  younger  than  he  was. 

Of  course  this  was  the  better  way  ;  he  gained  in  mental 
strength  and  self-reliance  by  it,  and  he  accomplished 
more  in  three  years  than  the  ordinary  school-boy  would 
in  six. 

Aside  from  his  pride  and  sensitiveness  in  this  respect, 
he  was  ever  ready  and  eager  to  be  with  Gladys. 

Wherever  she  went,  after  school  hours,  he  was  her 
constant  and  devoted  attendant,  and  no  service  was  too 
hari  or  disagreeable  to  be  performed  for  her. 

And  she  enjoyed  having  him  with  her.  He  was  out 
growing  the  delicate,  almost  effeminate  look  which  he 
had  had  when  he  first  came  to  them  ;  an  air  of  manliness 
and  strength  had  taken  its  place,  while  there  was  a  nat 
ural  gallantry  and  manliness  about  him  that  made  him 
a  very  agreeable  escort. 

Another  year  passed,  and  he  made  even  more  rapid 
strides  in  his  studies  than  before  ;  still  it  was  a  great 
trial  to  him  that  he  had  only  completed  the  studies  of  the 
second  year  of  the  high  school  course,  and  Gladys  was 
ready  to  graduate. 

He  was  present  at  her  examination,  and  also  at  the  ex 
ercises  of  the  class  when  it  graduated,  and  it  was  evi 
dent,  from  his 'flushed  cheek  and  glittering  eye,  that 
gome  bitter  struggle  was  going  on  within  him. 

He  watched  the  beautiful  girl's  every  movement,  he 
eagerly  drank  in  every  word  that  she  uttered,  and  was 
as  proud  of  her  as  he  could  be,  yet  all  the  time  miserably 
conscious  of  his  own  deficiency. 

That  evening  he  shut  himself  within  his  own  room 
and  fought  a  terrible  battle  out  with  his  pride  and  wretch 
edness. 

"I  am  nineteen  years  old,  and  she  is  seventeen,"  he 
said,  bitterly.  "I  am  two  years  behind  her,  and  I  should 
be  two  years  in  advance— there  are  four  years  of  my  life 


42  THE  DEVELOPMENTS  OF  SEVERAL  TEARS. 

lost;  no,  not  lost,  either,"  be  added,  with  sudden  energy, 
"for  I  will  make  them  up,  I  will  gain  them.  Can  I  do 
six  years  work  in  four  2  Harder  work,  too,  than  I  have 
ever  done  before  ?  Yes,  I  will !" 

He  sat  down  to  his  table  and  began  to  look  over  his 
books,  making  calculations  as  to  how  much  ground  he 
could  get  over  in  a  given  time,  while  every  few  moments 
he  would  consult  son:ie  catalogues  that  lay  beside  him. 

The  next  morning  he  walked  down  to  the  Fulton  Ferry 
with  Mr.  Huntress,  and  on  the  way  he  remarked,  with 
more  than  hia  accustomed  gravity  : 

"  Uncle  August,  Gladys  is  going  to  Vassar  next  year, 
isn't  she?" 

"Yes ;  she  is  ambitious  to  take  an  advanced  course,  and 
there  is  no  reason  why  she  should  not  do  so,  i.f  she  desires. 

"Will  you  allow  me  to  continue  my  studies  during  the 
summer  with  Mr.  Riverd,  and  enter  some  institute  in  the 
fall  where  I  can  advance  more  rapidly?'' 

Mr.  Huntress  turned  and  looked  searchingly  into  the 
young  man's  flushed  face,  as  he  asked  this  question. 

He  was  a  tall,  manly  fellow  of  nineteen,  strong  and 
stalwart  of  frame,  his  fine,  massive  head  crowned  with 
waving  hair  a  few  shades  darker  than  it  was  when  we 
first  saw  him  ;  his  eyes  full  of  fire  and  intelligence,  his 
whole  face  glowing  with  strength  of  character,  and  a 
certain  something  which  gave  one  an  idea  of  great  re 
serve  power,  and  it  was  no  wonder  that  the  countenance 
of  Mr.  Huntress  lighted  with  a  took  of  pride,  as  he  real 
ized  that,  under  God,  he  had  been  instrumental  in  giving 
to  the  world  this  noble  specimen  of  manhood. 

Then  a  sudden  smile  broke  over  his  face. 

"Why,  Geoff,  are  you  envious  of  Gladys,  because  she 
is  going  to  college?"  he  asked,  in  a  bantering  tone. 

A.  deeper  flush  suffused  the  young  man's  handsome 
face.  Then  he  replied,  in  low  but  intense  tones  : 

"I  hope  I  am  not  envious  of  any  good  that  comes  to 
her;  1  am  more  proud  of  her  than  I  can  express,  and  I 
would  not  have  her  anything  but  just  what  she  is,  the 
kindest,  the  smartest,  and  loveliest  of  girls  ;  but  I  can't 
quite  stand  it  to  be  so  far  behind  her,  to  have  her  look 
down  upon  me  and  despise  me  for  being  so  ignorant." 

"I  do  not  think  that  Gladys  would  ever  be  guilty  of 
anything  so  unkind.  Geoff ;  she  loves  yon  far  too  well  for 
that,"  returned  Mr.  Huntress,  gravely,  but  still  closely 
watching  his  protege,  for  he  could  well  understand  the 
pain  he  was  suffering. 


THE  DEVELOPMENTS  OF  SEVERAL  YEARS.  43 

Geoffrey's  face  kindled,  and  his  companion  could  see 
his  temples  throbbing  as  the  blood  coursed  more  quickly 
through  his  veins  at  his  words. 

"Thank  you,  Uncle  August,  for  assuring  me  of 
Gladys'  affection;  but!  want  her  respect  as  well,"  b-e 
said,  with  a  slight  quiver  in  hip  tone. 

August  Huntress  started  at  that  reply,  for  it  betrayed  a 
great  deal. 

It  told  him  that  the  devotion  and  affection  which  he 
had  manifested  for  Gladys  from  the  first  had  now  grown 
into  a  strong,  deep  passion,  which  would  either  make  or 
mar  his  whole  future,  and'  he  was  strangely  moved  by 
this  discovery. 

How  would  it  be  with  Gladys  if  she  should  discover  it? 
Would  her  heart  respond  to  this  wealth  of  love?  Would 
she  ever  be  willing  to  link  her  fate  with  his? 

She  was  far  in  advance  of  Geoffrey,  mentally,  but  he 
was  making  such  rapid  and  resolute  strides  after  her, 
that,  at  the  rate  he  had  been  gaining  on  her  of  late,  it 
could  not  be  very  long  before  he  would  reach  the  plane 
on  which  she  was  standing,  even  if  he  did  not  distance 
her  altogether. 

Well,  well,  it  would  be  a  romantic  ending  to  the  story 
of  their  lives,  he  thought,  if  these  two,  so  strangely 
thrown  upon  his  care — with  so  much  of  mystery  sur 
rounding  their  birth  and  parentage,  and  likely  always  to 
envelope  them — should  some  day  unite  their  fates  and 
wed  each  other. 

-But  he  allowed  nothing  of  all  this  musing  to  appear  ;  he 
simply  said,  with  his  accustomed  kindness  and  genial 
smile  : 

"You  are  worthily  ambitious,  Geoff,  but  I  don't  know 
how  you  will  stand  it  to  apply  yourself  so  closely  all 
summer  and  then  go  right  on  in  the  fall.  I  cannot 
allow  you  to  sacrifice  your  health  to  your  love  for 
study." 

"But  I  am  well  and  strong  as  a  giant ;  will  you  let  me 
try,  sir?"  he  pleaded,  earnestly. 

"Yes,  indeed,  with  all  my  heart.  It  is  a  pleasure  to 
give  you  advantages  when  you  improve  them  so  eagerly. 
I  will  make  it  an  object  to  Mr.  Rivers  to  remain  with  you 
during  the  vacation,  and  then  we  can  decide  later  where 
you  will  go  in  the  fall." 

"Thank  you,  Uncle  August,  you  are  like  a  dear  father 
to  me,  and  I  could  not  love  you  better  if  you  really  were. 
I  hope  some  day  to  prove,  in  some  tangible  way,  how 


4*  GEOFFREY  ENTERS  COLLAGE. 

grateful   I  am  for  your  goodness,"  Geoffrey   said,  with 
deep  feeling. 

"Tut,  tut,  my  boy,  don't  burden  yourself  with  any 
sense  of  obligation.  I  am  getting  my  pay  as  I  go  along, 
in  the  enjoyment  I  get  out  of  having  a  fine,  manly  fellow 
like  yourself  in  the  house.  I  don't  believe  I  could  be 
prouder  of  my  own  son  than  I  am  of  you,  and,  taking  us 
all  in  all,  I  imagine  there  "isn't  a  happier  family  in  all 
Brooklyn  than  the  one  residing  at  No. Clinton  ave 
nue.  Eh,  Geoff  ?'' 


CHAPTER  VII. 

GEOFFREY  ENTERS  COLLEGE. 

August  Huntress  and  his  gentle  wife,  Alice,  deserved 
to  be  happy,  for  they  had  devoted  the  best  of  their  lives 
to  the  work  of  rearing  the  two  children  who  had  been  so 
strangely  thrown  upon  their  care. 

Of  course  it  was  but  natural  that  their  love  for  Gladys 
should  be  deeper,  stronger,  and  more  sacred  than  for 
Geoffrey,  for  they  had  taken  her  to  their  hearts  as  their 
very  own  when  she  was  but  a  tiny  babe,  and  having  had 
no  other  children  sent  them  to  share  their  affection,  their 
every  hope  had  long  been  centered  in  hei%. 

But  they  felt  very  tenderly  toward  the  hapless  boy  who 
had  first  aroused  their  sympathy  for  his  misfortune,  and 
subsequently  won  their  love  by  his  gentleness  and  con 
fidence  in  them. 

Mr.  Rivers,  Geoffrey's  tutor,  was  very  glad  of  the  op 
portunity  to  remain  with  his  pupil  during  the  summer 
vacation,  for  it  was  simply  a  pleasure  to  teach  one  so 
eager  for  knowledge  ;  while,  too,  being  in  limited  circum 
stances,  he  needed  the  pecuniary  benefit  accruing  from 
the  arrangement. 

Mr.  Huntress  sent  them  both  into  the  country  upon  a 
farm,  where  they  could  have  fresh  air  and  country  liv 
ing  to  strengthen  their  bodies,  while  storing  their  minds 
with  knowledge. 

Mr.  Rivers  was  most  faithful  in  fulfilling  his  duties  as 
a  tutor,  while  Geoffrey  was  indefatigable  as  a  student. 
He  applied  himself  early  and  late  ;  he  dug  to  the  very 
root  of  every  problem  and  question,  while  he  possessed 
the  power  of  concentration  to  such  a  degree  that  he  got 
over  the  ground  much  more  rapidly  than  most  students. 

At  the  beginning  of  September  he    was  pronounced 


GEOFFREY  ENTERS  COLLEGE.  45 

qualified  to  enter  a  private  institution  for  young  men, 
where  the  principal,  after  learning  the  circumstances 
regarding  his  early  misfortune  and  inability  to  study,  al 
lowed  .him  special  privileges. 

Here  he  remained  for  a  year,  overcoming  every  ob 
stacle  with  an  iron  will  and  unflagging  perseverance,  and 
surprising  every  one  by  his  progress. 

He  developed  in  other  ways  also,  becoming  more  mature 
physically,  and  acquired  a  dignity  and  thoughtfulnesa 
almost  beyond  his  years,  yet  at  the  same  time  possessing 
a  peculiar  gentleness  and  courtesy  of  manner  that  won 
every  one. 

At  the  end  of  the  year  he  was  qualified  to  enter  col 
lege. 

Mr.  Huntress  told  him  that  he  might  remain  where  he 
was  if  he  felt  the  least  sensitiveness  about  entering  a 
university  ;  but  he  was  ready  and  eager  now  to  take  hig 
place  in  the  world  with  young  men  of  his  own  age.  Geof 
frey  had  a  consciousness  within  him  that  he  could  hold 
his  own  anywhere,  and  he  decided  that  he  would  go  to 
Yale. 

He  passed  his  examinations,  and  was  received  without 
a  condition,  and  he  could  not  help  experiencing  a  feeling 
of  triumph  that  at  last  he  was  on  the  "home  stretch,"  so 
to  speak,  for  the  goal  toward  which  he  had  for  years  so 
longinerly  and  enviously  looked. 

Now  he  was  only  one  year  behind  Gladys,  and  he  hoped 
to  be  able  to  lessen  the  distance  between  them  before  he 
was  through  with  his  course.  At  all  events,  i*  his  health 
was  spared,  he  would  now  have  a  finished  education,  and 
would  not  need  to  feel  that  he  was  beneath  her  in  point 
of  intellect. 

As  for  Gladys  herself,  she  was  as  proud  as  she  could 
be  when  Geoffrey  told  her  of  his  success. 

"Just  to  think  of  it,"  she  cried,  with  shining  ej'es  and 
flushod  cheeks,  though  a  little  mischievous  smile  played 
over  her  red  lips  ;  "only  six  years  ago  I  taught  you  your 
letters,  and  now  you  are  almost  at  the  top  of  the  ladder! 
Oh,  Geoffrey.  I'm  afraid  you  are  very  smart !" 

"Afraid,  Gladys?" 

"Yes,  and  please  don't  drive  your  chariot  too  fast,  even 
now.  Why,  if  you  had  had  the  opportunities  that  have 
fallen  to  my  lot,  you  would  have  been  so  far  above  me 
by  this  time  that  I  should  never  have  dared  so  much  as 
to  lift  my  eyes  to  you,"  the  young  girl  returned  with 
mock  humility. 


46  GEOFFREY  ENTERS  COLLEGE. 

He  bent  and  looked  earnestly  into  her  eyes. 

"Gladys,"  he  cried,  under  his  breath,  " I  am  sometimes 
almost  glad  that  I  was  cast  adrift  upon  the  world." 

"Glad  !  Why,  Geoff!"  she  exclaimed,  astonished,  and 
wondering  at  his  intense  mood. 

"You  think  that  rather  an  extravagant  statement,"  he 
said,  smiling,  "but  if  my  life  had  run  along  smoothly  in 
my  own  home,  like  chat  of  other  boys,  I  might  never 
have  learned  what  mettle  there  was  within  me,  and  be 
sides,  I  might  never  have  known  you — you  who  have 
been  my  good  genius  and  my  inspiration." 

Gladys  shot  one  startled  glance  up  into  those  earnest 
eyes  looking  into  hers,  then  her  own  quickly  dropped, 
and  a  vivid  scarlet  shot  up  to  her  brow. 

Geoffrey  had  never  spoken  like  this  to  her  before, 
and  the  suppressed  passion  in  his  voice  betrayed  vol 
umes. 

The  unexpected  glimpse  of  his  heart  set  her  own  to 
beating  with  strange  emotions. 

She  had  always  been  fond  of  him  in  a  sort  of  tender, 
compassionate  way,  which  of  late  had  developed  into 
something  of  pride  for  his  smartness,  and  the  character 
he  exhibited  ;  but  she  had  never  dreamed  that  she  could 
ever  learn  to  regard  him  other  than  as  a  dear  friend  or 
brother,  or  that  he  would  ever  entertain  but  fraternal 
affection  for  her. 

She  was  strangely  affected  by  this  discovery  of  a 
deeper  sentiment. 

Geoffrey  entered  Yale  the  first  of  September,  and  be 
gan  his  four  years'  course  there  with  the  greatest  of  en 
thusiasm. 

He  had  been  hard  at  work  at  college  a  little  over  a  week 
when,  one  evening,  while  he  was  deeply  absorbed  in  the 
preparation  of  the  morrow's  lessors,  there  came  a  quick, 
sharp  rap  upon  his  door. 

He  glanced  up  as  the  door  opened,  and  was  astonished 
to  see  half  a  dozen  fellows  from  the  sophomore  class  en 
ter  and  station  themselves  at  different  points  in  the  room, 
while  one,  who  appeared  to  be  the  leader  of  the  company, 
slowly  advanced  toward  him. 

In  an  instant  it  flashed  upon  Geoffrey  that  he  was 
about  to  be  subjected  to  that  terror  of  all  freshmen — haz 
ing — it  being  before  the  days  when  the  practice  fell  into 
such  disfavor  as  at  present. 

For  a  moment  he  was  indignant  at  this  intrusion  ;  then 
he  said  to  himself : 


.GEOFFREY  ENTERS  COLLEGE.  47 

"If  th«y  ara  not  unreasonable  I'll  make  the   best  of  it, . 
and  let  them  have  their  fun." 

He  arose  from  his  table  and  turned  to  meet  the  young 
man  approaching  him,  a  genial  smile  on  his  handsome  face. 

But,  as  if  suddenly  arrested  by  some  supernatural 
power,  both  young  men  stopped  transfixed,  and  gazed  at 
each  other  with  undisguised  astonishment,  while  expres 
sions  of  wonder  passed  from  lip  to  lip  among  those  who 
were  looking  on. 

And  it  was  no  wonder,  for  those  two  standing  in  the 
center  of  the  room  might  well  have  been  twin  brothers 
instead  of  utter  strangers,  for  they  appeared  to  be  exactly 
alike  in  form,  and  feature,  and  bearing. 

Both  were  fair,  with  nut-broAvn  hair  and  blue  eyes. 
Both  were  tall  and  well-developed,  with  a  proud  bearing 
that  would  have  made  them  conspicuous  anywhere,  al 
though  a  critical  observer  might  have  noticed  that  Geof 
frey  was  more  firmly  built,  more  muscular,  perhaps  ;  thus 
showing  greater  strength  than  the  other. 

The  intruder  was  the  first  to  recover  himself,  however, 
and  remarked,  with  a  toss  of  his  fine/ head  and  a  long 
drawn  breath : 

"I  say,  Huntress,  this  is  downright  queer!  We  came 
to  give  you  a  little  surprise  party,  and  you've  completely 
taken  the  wind  out  of  our  sails  to  begin  with.  I  could 
almost  swear  that  I  was  looking  at  my  own  reflection  in 
a  glass.  Who  are  you,  anyway?  Give  us  a  history  of  your 
antecedents." 

"Gentlemen,  you  have  the  advantage  of  me,"  Geoffrey 
politely  returned,  as  he  glanced  from  face  to  face.  "  You 
appear  to  know  me  by  name — be  good  enough  to  tell  me 
whom  I  have  the  honor  to  entertain,  then  I  shall  be  happy 
to  answer  your  questions." 

"Well,  I  must  say  you're  a  cool  one  for  a  'fresh,'"  re 
turned  the  other,  with  a  light  laugh,  "but  we  can't  stop 
for  formal  introductions  all  round.  Since  I  am  master  of 
ceremonies  for  the  evening,  I  will  introduce  myself  as 
Everet  Mapleson  at  your  service.  I  am  a  Southerner  by 
birth — son  of  Col.  William  Mapleson,  of  '  Vue  de  1'Eau,' 
Virginia.  Now,  for  your  genealogy,  young  man." 

Geoffrey  colored. 

Young  Mapleson's  tone  was  offensive  in  the  extreme, 
while  his  manner  said  as  plainly  as  manner  could  say,  "I 
belong  to  one  of  the  F.  F.  V's — beat  that  record  if  you 
can,"  and  Geoffrey's  first  impulse  was  to  refuse  to  comply 
with  his  authoritative  demand. 


48  9HE  EAZBR  HAZED, 

But  he  had  heard  something  of  the  indignities  which 
sophomores  sometimes  heaped  upon  unlucky  freshmen, 
and  after  a  moment  of  thought  he  quietly  replied  : 

"My  genealogy  is  not  a  remarkable  one.  I  am  an 
orphan,  having  lost  my  parents  at  a  very  early  age,  but  I 
have  been  reared  and  educated  by  an  uncle,  Mr.  Hun 
tress,  of  Brooklyn,  New  York." 

"Is  that  so?"  drawled  the  young  Southerner,  with  lan 
guid  insolence.  "Then  it's  a  very  singular  coincidence, 
our  being  the  double  of  each  other.  Why,  one  would  be 
almost  tempted  to  swear  that  the  Mapleson  blood  flows 
in  your  veins;  but  since  my  governor  and  I  are  the  very 
last  of  our  race,  that  can't  be  possible,  and  it  can  only  be 
accounted  for,  I  suppose,  as  a  strange  freak  of  nature." 

Geoffrey  simply  bowed  in  reply  to  these  remarks  ;  his 
blood  ^egan  to  boil  at  his  visitor's  assumption  of  superior 
ity,  and  his  fingers  began  to  tingle  to  take  him  by  the 
collar  and  walk  him  out  of  the  room. 

"However,"  young  Mapleson  resumed,  rubbing  his 
white  hands  and  winking  at  his  comrades,  "we  must  not 
be  diverted  from  the  object  of  our  visit.  We  have  called 
upon  you,  Mr.  Huntress,  to  test  your  powers  of  oratory ; 
you  will  kindly  favor  us  with  a  speech.  Be  seated,  my 
fellow  sophs." 

Everet  Mapleson  helped  himself  to  the  easiest  chair  in 
the  room,  and  waved  his  hand  toward  his  companions  as 
a  signal  for  them  to  do  likewise. 

Geoffrey  saw  by  the  expectant  faces  around  him  that 
there  would  be  no  reprieve  for  him,  and  though  he  in- 
wardly  rebelled  against  having  his  privacy  thus  uncere 
moniously  invaded,  and  at  being  peremptorily  ordered 
about  by  a  conceited  fellow  younger  than  himself,  as 
Mapleson  evidently  was,  yet  he  knew  he  would  get  off 
easier  if  he  made  light  of  his  uncomfortable  situation  and 
indulged  their  caprice,  at  least  to  a  reasonable  extent. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

THE   HAZER   HAZED. 


Accordingly  Geoffrey  smiled  and  bowed,  remarking,  in 
an  off-hand  way  t 

"I  fear  that  my  powers  as  orator  will  be  somewhat  dis 
appointing  to  you,  gentlemen  ;  nevertheless,  I  will  favor 
you  to  the  extent  of  my  ability." 


TH 3  HAZ£R  HAZED.  49 

Assuming  a  somewhat  exaggerated  attitude  of  dig 
nity,  he  began  reciting  one  of  Cicero's  orations,  rendering 
it  in  the  original  with  perfect  ease  and  fluency,  while  his 
audience  listened  as  if  spell-bound  to  the  smoothly  rolling 
sentences. 

But  this  display  did  not  satisfy  Mapleson.  He  insisted 
that  Geoffrey  should  give  a  recitation  in  a  reversed  posi 
tion — the  speaker  standing  on  his  head. 

This  proposal  was  received  with  shouts  of"  Shame  1" 
"No,  no  !"  "You  are  going  too  far,  Everet !" 

Geoffrey's  eyes  glowed  with  indignation,  and  a  spot  of 
vivid  scarlet  settled  on  each  cheek.  He  saw  that  the 
young  Southerner  intended  to  degrade  him. 

"I  think  you  have  made  a  serious  mistake,"  said  Geof 
frey,  boldly  approaching  Everet  Mapleson,  "if  you  ex 
pect  to  humiliate  me.  If  you  are  sure  that  these  gentle 
men  will  not  be  satisfied  until  they  see  how  I  woura  look 
standing  in  a  reversed  attitude " 

"Quite  sure,  ami  we'll  soon  prove  it  if  you  don't  get 
about  it,"  was  the  satirical  interruption. 

"Then  I  will  give  you  a  text  from  the  ancient  Phcedrus, 
and  at  the  same  time  gratify  your  friends — by  proxy." 

Geoffrey  made  a  sudden  spring  as  he  uttered  those  last 
words,  seized  the  young  Southerner  about  the  waist, 
whirled  him  to  the  floor  quick  as  a  flash,  and  grasping 
him  by  the  legs,  held  him  aloft  in  this  reversed  position 
with  a  grip  of  iron,  while  he  repeated,  in  a  voice  of  thun 
der,  that  Latin  maxim  : 

"  Scepe  intereunt  aliis  meditantes  necem.  Often  they 
who  plot  the  destruction  of  others  become  the  victims  of 
their  own  machinations." 

Then  he  released  his  hold  upon  the  young  man,  politely 
assisted  him  to  rise  to  his  feet,  and  making  a  profound 
bow  before  him,  gravely  remarked  : 

"  I  think  I  hare  satisfied  all  requirements.  I  have  showm 
your  friends,  if  not  you,  how  I  should  look  standing  oa 
my  head,  while  I  have  given  you  a  quotation  which  may 
prove  useful  to  you  in  the  future." 

It  had  all  been  done  so  quickly  and  so  resolutely  that 
there  had  scarcely  been  time  for  the  others  to  interfere 
had  they  been  so  disposed  ;  hardly  time,  even,  for  Maple- 
son  himself  to  resist,  he  had  been  so  completely  taken  by 
surprise,  while  every  one  was  amazed  at  the  wonderful 
strength  and  dexterity  that  Geoffrey  displayed. 

But  once  more  on  his  feet,  Mapleson  flew  into  a  white 
heat  of  rage. 


60  THE  HAZER  HAZED. 

All  his  hot  Southern  blood  was  up,  and  he  dashed  at 
Geoffrey  with  blazing  eyes,  crimson  face,  and  with  fists 
clenched  and  uplifted  as  if  to  smite  him  to  the  floor. 

But  Geoffrey  caught  him  by  the  wrists,  with  a  grip  that 
rendered  him  instantly  powerless,  while  he  said,  with  the 
utmost  good  nature  : 

"Mr.  Mapleson,  you  are  no  match  for  me;  I  measured 
you  well  before  I  touched  you  ;  my  muscles  and  sinewa 
are  like  iron  from  long  gymnastic  training,  so  I  advise 
you  not  to  waste  your  strength.  I  am  sorry  to  have  of 
fended  you,  but  this  affair  was  none  of  my  seeking,  and 
you  tried  my  patience  altogether  too  far.  I  have  simply 
acted  in  self-defense." 

But  Mapleson  had  lost  his  head  entirely,  and  blustered 
and  swore  in  the  most  passionate  manner,  while  his  com 
rades  .,were  so  struck  with  admiration  for  Geoffrey  and 
his  masterly  self-control  in  the  face  of  such  excessive 
provocation,  that  not  one  of  them  was  disposed  to  meddle 
in  the  quarrel. 

"  Let  go  !  you  cold-blooded  Yankee  !"  Everet  Mapleson 
cried,  hoarsely,  through  his  tightly  locked  teeth. 

"I  will  release  you,  Mapleson,  but  you  must  not  try  the 
same  thing  again,"  Geoffrey  returned,  with  quiet  firm 
ness,  and  instantly  loosed  his  hold  upon  the  young  man's 
wrists. 

With  another  violent  oath,  quick  as  a  flash,  and  before 
any  one  suspected  his  intention,  Mapleson  whipped  out  a 
pistol  from  an  inner  pocket,  cocked  and  pointed  it  at 
Geoffrey. 

What  might  have  been  the  result  no  one  can  tell,  if  a 
young  man  named  Abbott  had  not  dashed  forward,  and 
thrown  up  his  arm. 

The  next  instant  he  had  wrenched  the  weapon  from  his 
grasp. 

"Are  you  mad,  Mapleson?"  he  cried;  "we  shall  have 
the  whole  faculty  down  upon  us  if  you  trifle  with  such  a 
plaything,  and  then  there  will  be  a  fine  row." 

The  other  sophomores  now  gathered  around  and  tried 
to  pacify  their  enraged  leader,  but  he  only  grew  the  more 
furious  and  vowed  that  he  would  yet  have  the  Yan 
kee's  heart's  blood  for  his  insolence  in  laying  hands  upon 
him. 

"No,  no,  Mape,  you  drove  him  to  it,"  interposed  one; 
"you  can't  blame  him,  and  you  would  have  done  the 
same  had  you  been  in  his  place." 

"Who  ever  heard  of  a   'fresh' getting  the   upper  hand 


A  STRANGE  ENCOUNTER.  51 

of  a  half-dozen  'sophs'  before?"  he  retorted,  angrily. 
"You're  a  set  of  cowards,  every  one  of  you." 

Two  of  the  students  seized  Maplesou  by  the  arms,  and 
he  was  forced  from  the  room,  muttering  threats  of  ven 
geance  as  he  passed  out. 

When  Geoffrey  was  at  length  left  alone,  he  closed  and 
locked  his  door,  and  then  sat  down  and  fell  into  troubled 
thought. 

He  was  sure  that  he  had  made  a- bitter  and  lasting 
enemy  of  the  young  man,  and  he  regretted  it,  for  Geoff rey 
Huntress  was  one  who  loved  to  be  at  peace  with  all 
mankind  ;  but  he  could  only  wait  patiently  to  see  how  the 
matter  would  end,  and  having  reached  this  conclusion, 
he  resumed  his  interrupted  studies.  But  he  could  not  put 
his  mind  upon  them,  for  all  at  once  the  remarkable  re 
semblance  between  himself  and  the  young  Southerner  be 
gan  to  haunt  him. 

Could  it  be  possible  that  any  of  the  same  blood  flowed 
in  their  veins?  If  so,  how? 

Why  was  Everet  Mapleson  the  favored  son  of  a  proud 
and  wealthy  father,  while  had  been  a  poor,  demented 
outcast,  abandoned  in  the  streets  of  a  large  city  and  left 
to  his  fate. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

A  STRANGE    ENCOUNTER. 

Several  days  went  by,  and  Geoffrey  heard  nothing 
more  either  of  or  from  the  sophomores  who  had  attempted 
to  haze  him 

Neither  did  he  happen  to  meet  any  of  them  on  his  way 
to  or  from  his  recitations,  and  he  hoped  that  the  occur 
rence  would  gradually  be  forgotten  and  occasion  no  more 
trouble. 

He  did  not  mention  it  to  any  one,  and  he  bore  none  of 
the  actors  any  ill-will,  for  he  well  knew  that  hazing  had 
been  an  established  custom  in  many  colleges,  and  that 
every  freshman  was  liable  to  be  subjected  to  the  ordeal. 

But  the  affair  was  destined  to  be  more  serious,  eventu 
ally,  than  he  imagined  an  occurrence  of  that  kind  could 
ever  become. 

Young  Mapleson  realized,  as  soon  as  his  passion  began 
to  cool  somewhat,  that  he  should  be  obliged  to  relinquish 
all  thoughts  of  retaliation  for  a  season,  for  none  of  hia 


62  A  STRANGE  ENCOUNTER. 

comrades  would  bear  him  out  in  any  plan  for  revenge ; 
but  he  vowed  in  his  heart  that  there  should  yet  come  a 
day  of  reckoning  between  himself  and  Huntress  for  the 
indignity  to  which  he  had  been  subjected  before  his 
companions. 

He  was  furious  with  them  for  not  having  come  to  his 
release,  and  he  raved  over  the  affair  all  the  way  back  to 
his  room  after  leaving  Geoffrey's. 

But  they  made  light  of  it,  and  tried  to  pass  the  whole 
thing  off  as  a  joke.  This  only  enraged  him  the  more,  al 
though  he  began  to  see  the  wisdom  of  keeping  still  about 
it,  since  he  could  get  no  sympathy  from  them. 

Tuere  is  no  telling  what  rash  act  he  might  not  have 
committed  if  he  had  been  allowed  to  go  and  come  as 
usual  while  this  fierce  mood  lasted.  But  he  had  wrought 
himself  into  an  excessive  perspiration,  and  then  going  out 
into  the  chill  night  air  afterward,  he  had  taken  a  violent 
cold,  and  for  three  weeks  he  was  confined  to  his  room 
with  a  threatened  fever. 

At  the  end  of  that  time,  although  his  anger  had  not 
abated  one  whit  toward  Geoffrey,  and  he  was  no  less  de 
termined  to  have  his  revenge,  he  had  come  to  see  the 
wisdom  of  refraining  from  all  rashness  which  might  re 
bound  injuriously  upon  himself,  and  he  resolved  to  con 
ceal  his  purpose  in  his  own  breast  and  watch  his  oppor- 
tunity  to  strike  his  foe  down  at  some  time  in  the  future, 
when  the  blow  would  be  felt  with  bitter  force. 

So,  upon  recovering  his  usual  health,  he  resumed  his 
studies  and  his  intercourse  with  his  fellow-students  as  if 
nothing  had  occurred  to  ruffle  him,  and  those  who  had 
participated  in  the  hazing  of  Geoffrey  Huntress  imagined 
that  the  unpleasant  affair  had  blown  safely  over  and  be 
come  a  thing  of  the  past. 

Thus  the  fall  and  winter  passed. 

Meantime  Gladys  was  winning  golden  opinions  for  her 
self  at  Vassar. 

Study  was  a  perfect  delight  to  her,  consequently  excel 
lence  in  every  department  was  but  a  natural  result. 

The  name  of  Gladys  Huntress  became  the  synonym 
for  all  that  was  learned  and  brilliant  in  her  class,  and 
there  was  not  one  who  did  not  predict  that  the  first  honor 
should  be  conferred  upon  her  at  the  end  of  the  course. 

No  one  appeared  to  be  jealous  of  her,  either,  on  ac 
count  of  it,  for  she  was  a  general  favorite  with  both 
teachers  and  scholars,  always  having  a  pleasant  word  and 
a  kiiid  smile  for  everybody. 


A  STRANGE  ENCOUNTER.  63 

During  the  recess,  which  occurred  between  the  winter 
and  spring  terms  of  her  second  year  at  Vassar,  she  was 
in  New  York  city  for  a  few  days  with  her  chosen  friend 
and  roommate,  Addie  Loring. 

There  was  considerable  shopping  to  be  done  to  prepare 
for  the  warm  weather,  dress-making  to  atiend  to,  besides 
a  gay  round  of  social  duties,  and  the  two  girls  were  all 
the  time  in  a  delightful  flutter  of  business  and  pleas 
ure. 

One  morning,  after  a  long  siege  of  shopping,  feeling 
both  weary  and  hungry,  they  entered  an  up-town  cafe  to 
obtain  a  lunch  and  rest  a  little  before  going  home. 

At  the  cashier's  desk  near  the  door,  as  they  stepped  in 
side,  there  stood  a  tall,  handsome  young  n:an  in  the  act 
of  paying  for  his  dinner. 

Gladys  caught  sight  of  him  in  an  instant,  and  she 
Started  and  flushed  a  vivid  crimson. 

Then  a  smile  of  joy  illumined  her  whole  face  as  ghe 
sprang  forward,  and,  laying  her  hand  lightly  on  the 
young  man's  arm,  exclaimed  in  delighted  tones  : 

"Why,  Geoffrey,  where  did  you  drop  from  ?  I  imagined 
you  a  solitary  recluse  at  Yale,  and  hard  at  work  over 
Latin  and  Greek,  'to  gain  time'  as  you  wrote  in  your  last 
letter." 

The  young  man  turned  quickly  as  the  sweet,  lady-like 
voice  fell  upon  his  ear,  his  whole  body  thrilling  at  that 
light  touch  upon  his  arm,  and  found  himself  face  to  lace 
•with  the  most  beautiful  girl  be  had  ever  seen. 

A  tall,  slender,  perfect  form,  clad  in  a  bewitching  suit 
of  modest  gray,  stood  before  him.  Her  em«Jl  head  was 
proudly  poised  on  a  pair  of  graceful  shoulders,  and 
crowned  with  a  jaunty  turban  of  gray  velvet  in  which 
there  gleamed  a  scarlet  feather.  The  face  v  as  delicate  in 
outline,  with  lovely  features  and  a  c<  mplexion  of  pure 
•white  and  rose.  Her  eyes  of  dark  blue  were  lighted  with 
surprise  and  gladness,  her  lips  wreathed  with  a  tender 
smile  of  welcome  which  parted  them  just  enough  to  re 
veal  the  small,  milk-white  teeth  between. 

A  look  of  admiration  shot  into  the  young  man's  eyes, 
and  then  they  began  to  gleam  with  an>uptnicnt. 

He  raised  his  hat  with  all  the  gallantry  of  which  he 
was  master,  and  bowed  low,  as  be  replied  : 

"You  have  made  a  slight  mistake,  lady.  I  do  not  an 
swer  to  the  name  by  which  you  have  addressed  me,  al 
though  I  might  be  tempted  to  do  so,  perhaps,  if  I  could 
thereby  secure  the  pleasure  of  your  acquaintance.  Allow 


54  A  STRANGE  ENCOUNTER. 

me,"  he  concluded,  drawing  a  card  from  his  pocket-book, 
and  respectfully  presenting  it  to  her. 

At  the  first  sound  of  his  voice  Gladys  was  conscious 
that  she  had  made  a  dreadful  blunder,  and  she  was  in 
stantly  covered  with  confusion. 

She  knew  at  once  that  this  man  could  not  be  Geoffrey, 
and  yet  who  was  he?  So  like  him  in  face  and  form,  with 
his  very  eyes  and  hair,  and  that  familiar  way  of  throw 
ing  up  his  head  when  suddenly  addressed  ! 

"Everet  Mapleson,  Richmond,  Virginia,"  she  read  upon 
the  card  that  he  had  given  her,  and  instantly  the  startled 
thought  shot  through  her  mind  :  "Can  it  be  possible  that 
he  and  Geoffrey  are  related  ?" 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  Mr.  Mapleson,"  she  said,  recover 
ing  herself  somewhat,  while  she  searched  his  face  for 
something  by  which  she  could  distinguish  him  from  Geof 
frey.  "  I  perceive  that  I  have  made  a  mistake,  but  you 
so  strangely  resemble  my — Mr.  Geoffrey  Huntress  ihat  I 
mistook  you  for  him." 

She  had  been  about  to  say  "  my  brother,"  but  suddenly 
checked  herself,  for,  since  Geoffrey  had  shown  so  much  of 
his  heart  to  her  and  she  had  begun  to  analyze  her  own 
feelings  toward  him,  she  had  been  very  shy  about  calling 
him  brother. 

"Ah!  Mr.  Geoffrey  Huntress,"  repeated  Everet  Maple- 
son,  with  a  quick  flash  from  his  eyes,  while  his  keen  mind 
at  once  made  a  shrewd  guess,  and  argued  therefrom  that 
this  beautiful  girl  must  be  either  the  sister  or  the  cousin 
of  his  enemy.  "I  have  met  that  gentleman,  for  I  also  am 
a  student  at  Yale."  he  continued,  "and — pardon  my  bold 
ness — I  presume  I  now  have  the  pleasure  of  meeting  his 
sistor.  Miss  Huntress." 

"No,  I  am  not  his  sister,  Mr.  Mapleson,"  Gladys  re 
plied,  her  color  coming  and  going  in  soft,  little  sunrise 
flushes,  ''but  we  are  members  of  the  same  family,  and 
I  am  Miss  Huntress." 

"  Ah,  yes — excuse  me — you  are  cousins,  I  presume. 
Huntress  once  told  mp  that  he  was  reared  by  an  uncle.  I 
am  sorrv,  upon  my  word,"  he  went  on,  with  an  appealing 
look,  "  if  our  singular  resemblance  has  caused  you  any 
annoyance  to-day;  pray  think  no  more  of  it  since  it  was 
a  very  natural  mistake.  We  are  often  addressed  by  each 
other's  name — indeed,  we  are  known  at  Yale  as  'the  mys 
terious  double.1  " 

All  the  time  the  young  man  was  speaking  he  was  closely 
observing  the  young  girl. 


A  ZTRASGE  ENCOUNTER.  55 

He  had  noticed  her  fluctuating  color  when  she  spoke 
of  Geoffrey ;  he  remarked  the  tender  inflection  of  her 
voice  as  she  uttered  his  name,  and  how  eager  she.  had  been 
to  correct  his  mistake  in  supposing  them  to  be  brother 
and  sister. 

"They  are  cousins — perhaps  not  first  cousins,  either, 
and  the  girl  loves  him,"  he  said  to  himself.  "Of  course 
he  returns  her  affection — no  fellow  in  his  senses  could 
help  it.  I  wonder  how  it  would  work  if  I  should  try  my 
own  luck  in  this  direction.  I  have  never  paid  off  that  old 
grudge  against  him,  and  this  would  be  a  fine  way  to  set 
tle  it." 

But  Gladys,  all  unconscious  of  this  secret  plotting 
against  her  own  and  Geoffrey's  happiness,  looked  up  with 
a  merry  smile  at  his  words  to  her,  and  remarked  : 

"The  resemblance  is  surely  very  striking,  although  your 
voices  are  unlike.  I  knew  the  moment  you  spoke  that  I 
had  made  a  mistake,  and  my  apparent  rudeness  must 
have  been  quite  startling  to  you,"  she  concluded,  color 
ing  again  as  she  remembered  how  eagerly  she  had  ap 
proached  him  and  laid  her  hand  upon  his  arm. 

':' No,  indeed  ;  you  are  very  hard  upon  yourself,  Miss 
Huntress.  Believe  me  I  shall  consider  the  incident  a  most 
fortunate  circumstance  if  I  may  be  allowed  to  consider  it 
as  a  formal  introduction  to  you,  and  thus  secure  the 
pleasure  of  your  acquaintance." 

He  was  so  gentlemanly  and  affable,  so  refined  in  his 
language  and  manner,  that  Gladys  thought  him  very 
agreeable,  and,  since  he  claimed  to  know  Geoffrey,  she 
thought  there  could  be  no  possible  harm  in  receiving  him 
as  an  acquaintance. 

Still  she  was  not  quite  sure  that  it  would  be  proper, 
end  this  made  her  a  little  guarded  in  her  reply. 

"I  am  always  glad  to  meet  any  of  Geoffrey's  friends," 
she  said,  with  one  of  her  charming  smiles;  bur  if  she 
could  have  known  how  he  cringed  under  her  words,  and 
what  venomous  hatred  was  rankling  in  his  heart  against 
him  who  was  her  ideal  of  all  manly  excellence,  she  would 
have  fled  from  him  in  dismay. 

But.  nothing  of  this  nor  of  the  miserable  plot  which  was 
rapidly  taking  form  in  his  mind  appeared  on  the  surface, 
while  before  he  could  frame  a  suitable  reply  Gladys 
turned  quickly  and  drew  Addie  Loring  to  her  side.  Rav 
ine:  : 

"  Allow  me  to  introduce  my  friend — Miss  Loring,  Mr. 
Mapleson." 


56  MRS.  BREVORT'S  RECEPTION. 

He  lifted  his  hat  in  acknowledgment  of  the  presenta 
tion  while  he  was  still  inwardly  chafing  over  that  last 
guarded  speech  of  hers. 

"She  wouldn't  look  at  me  if  she  knew  the  truth,"  he 
thought,  "and  that  clever  cousin  will  be  letting  it  all  out 
when  he  learns  that  we  have  met.  Never  mind.  I'll  make 
hay  while  the  sun  shines,  and  do  my  best  to  ingratiate 
myself  with  her  before  he  finds  it  out ;  she's  dusedly  pretty 
and  it  would  suit  me  finely  if  I  could  cut  him  out." 

He  detained  the  young  ladies  for  a  few  moments  longer 
— for  he  had  the  power  of  making  himself  very  agreeable 
when  he  chose — then  Addie  Loring  pulled  forth  a  little 
gem  of  a  watch  and  remarked,  with  a  look  of  surprise  : 

"Gladys,  dear,  we  promised  mamma  to  be  at  home  by 
four,  and  it  is  nearly  three  now,  while  we  have  flowers 
yet  to  get  for  Mrs.  Brevort's  reception."  • 

Everet  Mapleson's  heart  gave  a  great  bound  at  these 
last  words,  for  the  friends  at  whose  house  he  was  visit 
ing  also  had  cards  for  Mrs.  Brevort's  reception,  and  he 
mentally  resolved  that  he  would  grace  that  lady's  elegant 
drawing-room  with  his  presence  that  evening,  although 
he  and  Al  Vanderwater  had  previously  planned  for  some 
thing  entirely  different. 

He  took  pretty  Miss  Loring's  hint,  however,  begged 
pardon  for  having  detained  them  so  long,  then  made  hia 
adieus  and  passed  out  of  the  cafe,  while  the  young  girls 
moved  forward  to  an  empty  table,  where  they  chatted 
over  the  strange  encounter  as  they  ate  their  '"-earn  and 
cake. 


CHAPTER  X. 
MRS.  BREVORT'S  RECEPTION. 

Gladys  Huntress  was  very  beautiful  that  evening  when 
she  entered  Mrs.  Brevort's  drawing-room,  leaning  on  the 
arm  of  Mrs.  Loring,  who  was  to  present  her  to  their 
hostess,  while  Addie  and  her  mother  followed  close 
behind. 

Her  dress  was  blue,  of  elegant  surah,  which  fell  in  soft, 
graceful  folds  around  her,  its  long  train  making  her 
most  perfect  figure  seem  almost  regal. 

Tt  was  cut.  front  and  back,  with  a  V  shaped  bodice,  and 
this  was  filled  in  with  a  profusion  of  soft  filmv  lno«, 
gathered  close  about  her  white  throat,  and  fastened  with 
a  string  of  rare,  gleaming  pearls. 


MRS.  BRsroRra  RECEPTION.  87 

Her  beautiful  arms,  round  and  as  smooth  as  marble, 
were  also  covered,  but  not  concealed,  by  sleeves  of  lace. 

Her  nut-brown  hair,  which  shone  like  finest  satin,  had 
all  been  drawn  up  and  coiled  around  the  top  of  her  head 
like  a  gleaming  coronet,  while  a  few  soft,  silken  rings 
curled  charmingly  about  her  pure  forehead. 

There  was  not  a  flower  nor  an  ornament  about  her  any 
where  excepting  that  string  of  pearls,  but  the  very  sim 
plicity  of  her  toilet  was  artistic  and  just  adapted  to  en 
hance  her  beauty  of  face  and  form. 

Everet  Mapleson  saw  her  the  moment  that  she  entered 
the  room  ;  indeed,  he  had  been  watching  her  for  a  half- 
hour  or  more,  and  his  eyes  glowed  with  admiration. 

"  She  is  a  hundred  fold  more  lovely  than  I  thought  her 
this  afternoon,"  he  said,  under  his  breath.  "I  shall  love 
that  girl,  if  I  allow  myself  to  see  much  of  her.  And  why 
not?  I  believe  I  will  set  myself  regularly  at  work  to  win 
her;  thus  I  shall  not  only  secure  a,  charming  little  wife, 
but  accomplish  my  revenge,  also,  for  the  indignity  that  I 
have  received  from  Tits  hands." 

He  watched  Gladys,  while  she  was  presented  to  the 
hostess,  and  was  charmed  with  the  ease  and  grace  of  her 
manners. 

"She  belongs,  evidently,  to  a  good  family;  she  has 
been  well  reared,"  he  continued,  "even  my  critical  and 
aristocratic  mamma  could  not  fail  to  be  satisfied  with  her 
as  a  daughter,  although  she  is  not  particularly  partial  to 
Northern  women.  She  reminds  me  of  some  one,  too.  I 
wonder  who  it  can  be?  There  is  something  strangely 
familiar  in  the  proud  way  that  she  carries  herself." 

He  moved  toward  another  portion  of  the  room,  as  he 
saw  Gladys  and  her  friends  pass  on,  and,  seeking  Mrs. 
"Vanderwater,  who,  by  the  way,  was  the  mother  of  Albert 
Van der water,  Everet  Mapleson's  chum  and  especial 
fnVnd  at  Yale,  he  asked  : 

"Do  you  know  the  party  of  people  who  have  just  en-  j 
tered — that  gentleman  with  three  ladies?" 

"Oh,  yes;  they  are  the  Lorings.  Mr.  Loring  is  a 
wealthy  Wall  stroet  broker.  His  wife  is  a  daughter  of 
the  late  Colonel  Elwell,  and  their  daughter,  Miss  Addfo,  ?s 
a  charming  voung  lady,  not  to  mention  the  fart  that  sh«  is 
the  only  child  and  the  heiress  to  a  great  deal  of  money." 

"Introduce  me,  will  you?"  asked  Everet,  eagerly. 
"To  be  sure  I  will ;  but  is  it  the  money  or  the  beauty 
that  attract*  you  most?"  queried  the  ladv.  roguishly. 
"I  will  tell  you  later,"  retorted  the  young  man,  in  the 


68  MRS.  BREVORTS  RECEPTION. 

same  vein  ;  "but  you  did  not  say  who  that  young  lady  is 
who  accompanies  them,"  he  concluded,  as  it  his  attention 
had  but  just  been  drawn  toward  her. 

"No,  I  do  not  know  myself;  she  is  a  stranger,  but  a 
very  lovely  one,"  is  she  not  ?  Really,  I  do  not  believe  there 
is  another  lady  in  the  room  so  beautiful.  Come,  I  have  a 
curiosity  to  know  who  she  is  myself,  and  we  will  beg 
Mrs.  Loring  for  an  introduction." 

Thus  Everet  Mapleson  managed  to  secure  a  formal  in 
troduction  to  the  Lorings  and  Gladys  through  one  of  the 
leaders  of  New  York  society. 

He  knew  that  there  could  be  no  exceptions  taken  to 
any  one  whom  Mrs.  Vanderwater  vouched  for,  and  there 
fore  the  young  girl  would  have  no  excuse  for  avoiding 
him  on  the  score  of  not  having  been  properly  presented  to 
him. 

But  she  received  him  very  graciously,  even  referring  in 
a  laughing  way  to  their  previous  meeting  earlier  in  the 
day,  thus  showing  him  she  would  not  have  been  the  least 
hit  prudish  about  recognizing  him,  even  without  Mrs. 
Vanderwater's  reassuring  presence. 

He  soon  after  searched  out  his  friend  Al,  whom  he 
presented  to  Miss  Loring,  and  then  left  him  to  be  enter 
tained  by  her  while  he  devoted  himself  exclusively  to 
Gladys. 

They  danced  together  several  times,  and  he  managed  to 
pecure  her  company  during  supper,  while  afterward  they 
had  a  social  chat  in  Mrs.  Brevort's  charming  little  pic 
ture-gallery,  where  there  were  several  works  of  rare 
value. 

But  the  only  picture  which  Everet  Mapleson  seemed  to 
consider  worthy  of  his  regard  was  an  exquisite  face, 
framed  in  lustrous  brown  hair,  with  the  bluest  eyes  that 
he  had  ever  seen,  and  whose  every  expression  only  served 
to  wind  the  silken  chain  of  his  bondage,  the  chain  of  love, 
more  closely  about  him. 

Gladys,  on  her  part,  was  strangely  moved  by  the  young 
man's  presence. 

He  was  Geoffrey  a.nd  yet  he  was  not. 

Several  times  she  almost  forgot  herself  and  was  on  the 
point  of  addressing  him  in  the  old  familiar  way  which  she 
had  always  adopted  toward  her  father's  protege,  and  only 
restrained  herself  in  season  to  prevent  herself  from  ap 
pearing  bold  and  forward. 

Everet  Mapleson  found  her  eyes  fixed  upon  him  with 
great  earnestness  several  times,  and  he  knew  that  she 


MRS.  BREVORT'S  RECEPTION.  69 

was  measuring  him  by  her  estimate  of  Geoffrey  Huntress. 
It   nettled    him    exceedingly,  for   he  was   only  too  con 
scious  of  hi «  own  inferiority. 

"Well,  Miss  Huntress,  are  you,  like  many  others,  try 
ing  to  solve  within  yourself  the  mystery  of  my  resem 
blance  to  your  cousin,  that  you  observe  me  so  closely," 
he  asked,  with  an  amused  smile,  upon  finding  her  gaze 
riveted  upon  his  face  instead  of  the  picture  betore  which 
they  were  standing. 

Gladys  blushed  slightly. 

"I  shall  have  to  plead  guilty,  Mr.  Mapleson,"  she  con< 
fessed.  "  I  trust  you  will  excuse  me  if  I  have  appeared 
rude,  but,  really,  to  me  it  seems  the  strangest  thing  im 
aginable." 

"It  is,  indeed,"  he  said,  and  added  to  himself :" and 
dusedly  uncomfortable  to  me,  too." 

"  I  wonder  if  you  are  not  in   some  way  related,"  Gladys 
said,  musingly,  and  more  to  herself  than  to  him. 
Everet  Mapleson's  face  darkened. 

"I  do  not  think  so,"  he  answered,  curtly.  "He  is  a 
Northerner — I  was  born  at  the  South.  My  father  is  a 
{Southern  gentleman,  and  has  always  resided  near  Rich- 
mon,  Virginia,  excepting  during  the  war,  when  he  was  in 
the  field  or  camp  most  of  the  time,  and  a  year  or  two 
that  he  spent  traveling  in  Europe." 

Gladys  was  conscious  of  a  slight  feeling  of  resentment 

toward  her  companion  during  this  speech.     The  emphasis 

which  he  had,  perhaps  unconsciously,  expended  upon  his 

personal    pronouns,    and   the   fact  of  his  father   being  a 

"Southern  gentleman,"  implied   a    sense  of  superiority 

which  grated  harshly  upon  her  ear. 

"  Is  your  mother  also  a  native  of  the  South  ?"  she  asked. 

"Oh,  yes  ;  and  my  mother  is  a  most  magnificent  woman, 

too,   Miss  Huntress,"  the   young   man   returned,  with  a 

kindling  face. 

Gadys?  heart  softened  a  trifle  toward  him  at  this.  If 
he  loved  his  mother  like  that  there  must  be  some  good  in 
him,  she  thought. 

"  Have  you  brothers  and  sisters?"  she  inquired. 
uNo,  I   am  the  only  child.     I  was  born  within  a  year 
after  my  parents'  marriage,  and  there  have  been  no  other 
children." 

"Do  you  resemble  your  father  or  mother?" 
"  My  father.  My  mother  has  often  told  me  that  I  am  very 
like  what  he  was   at  my   age ;   but  there  is  a  portrait  of 
my  grandfather   Mapleson  at  home,  which,  but  for  the 


60  MRS.  BREVORT  8  RECEPTION. 

ancient  style  of  dress,  you  would  believe  had  been  taken 
for  me  ;  tiie  resemblance  is  every  bit  as  striking  as  that 
between  Huntress  and  me." 

"Has  your  father  no  brothers  or  sisters?"  Gladys 
asked. 

Everet  Mapleson  looked  surprised. 

He  knew  ihat  she  was  trying  to  account  in  some  way 
for  Geoffrey  Huntress'  likeness  to  himself  ;  but,  surely, 
he  thought,  she  must  know  all  about  her  cousin's  par 
entage  and  their  connections,  and  it  was  a  little  singular 
that  she  should  be  so  persistent  in  her  inquiries  regarding 
the  Mapleson  genealogy. 

"No, "he  replied;  "my  father  was  an  only  son.  He 
had  a  sister,  but  she  died  while  very  young.  The  only 
other  connections  that  I  know  anything  about  were  an 
uncle  who  made  my  father  his  heir,  and  a  distant  cousin 
— a  very  eccentric  sort  of  person.  Both,  however,  are 
long  since  dead,  and  both  died  single.  The  Mapleson 
family  was  never  a  numerous  one,  and  it  is  now  almost 
extinct.  I  see,  Miss  Huntress,"  he  added,  with  a  slight 
smile  in  which  Gladys  thought  she  detected  something  of 
scorn,  "that  you  are  trying  to  account  for  this  resem 
blance  upon  natural  principles;  but  it  is  simply  impos 
sible  that  we  are  in  any  way  connected.  The  fact  can 
only  be  attributable  to  a  strange  freak  of  nature." 

"Possibly,"  Gladys  returned,  thoughtfully,  and  yet  she 
was  impressed  that  there  was  more  in  it  than  Mr.  Maple- 
son  appeared  willing  to  allow. 

She  did  not  feel  well  enough  acquainted  with  him  to 
speak  of  the  mystery  surrounding  Geoffrey's  parentage 
and  his  early  life.  It  is  doubtful  if  she  would  have  told 
him,  under  any  circumstances,  because  of  Geoffrey's 
sensitiveness  upon  the  subject,  still  she  was  strangely 
impressed  by  their  resemblance. 

The  evening  was  one  of  keen  enjoyment  to  Everet 
Mapleson,  and  when  at  length  Gladys  withdrew  with  her 
friends,  he  accompanied  her  to  the  carriage  and  assisted 
her  to  enter. 

"I  have  rarely  enjoyed  a  pleasanter  evening,  Miss 
Huntress,  and  I  hope  we  shall  meet  again  before  I  leare 
the  city,"  he  said,  as  he  handed  her  the  extra  wrap  which 
hung  over  his  arm  and  stood  a  moment  beside  the  car 
riage  door. 

"Then  come  and  call  upon  us,  Mr.  Mapleson  ;  the  young 
ladies  will  be  together  for  a  few  days  longer,"  said  Mrs. 
Loring,  who  had  overheard  this  remark ;  and  having 


MARGHlY.  61 

learned  from  some  source  that  he  belonged  to  one  of  the 
F.  F.  V's,  she  was  anxious  to  cultivate  his  acquaintance 
for  Addie's  sake. 


CHAPTER  XI. 

MARGERY. 

Everet  Mapleson  availed  himself  of  Mrs.  Loring's  invi 
tation,  and  called  the  second  morning  afier  Mrs.  Brevort's 
reception,  to  pay  his  respects  to  the  young  ladies. 

He  was  fortunate  enough  to  liud  them  both  at  home, 
and  both  were  charmingly  entertaining. 

Addie  Loring  was  a  merry  little  body,  and  no  one  could 
ever  be  dull  wiien  in  her  society. 

Gladys  was  more  reserved  and  dignified  in  her  bearing, 
but  she  possessed  a  peculiar  fascination  which  instantly 
attracted  everybody,  and,  taking  the  two  together,  it 
would  have  been  difficult,  go  the  world  over,  to  have 
found  a  more  entertaining  couple  than  they. 

Everet  Mapleson  was  beguiled  into  a  call  of  a  full  hour 
— a  delightful  hour  it  was,  too,  to  them  all — and  looked  his 
dismay  when  finally,  glancing  at  his  watch,  he  found  how 
the  time  had  slipped  away. 

Addie  Loring  laughed  merrily,  when  she  saw  the  ex 
pression  on  his  face,  and  caught  his  well-bred,  "  I  had  no 
idea  it  was  so  late." 

"Pray,  Mr.  Mapleson,  do  not  look  so  disturbed,"  she 
cried  ;  "  there  is  no  fine  for  such  an  offense,  and  you  are 
absolved  even  before  confession,  for  this  time." 

vi  But  I  have  overstepped  all  bounds.  I  have  been  here 
a  whole  hour,  and  this  my  first  call,  too." 

"How  dreadful!''  laughed  the  litlle  lady,  roguishly. 
"Pray,  tell  me,  what  is  the  Southern  rule  for  first  calls?" 

"Twenty  minutes,  or  half  an  hour,  at  most." 

"  I  am  glad  I  do  not  live  at  the  South  then  Why,  one 
would  hardly  get  through  talking  about  the  weather  in 
that  time." 

"  Miss  Loring,  I  protest ;  there  has  not  been  one  word 
said  about  the  weather  this  morning,"  retorted  the  young 
man,  thinking  that  she  was  very  nearly  as  pretty  as 
Gladys,  as  she  stood  before  him  in  that  graceful  attitude, 
her  head  perched  saucily  on  one  side,  a  mocking  smile 
on  her  red  lips. 

"True;  but  this  wasn't  a  formal  call,  you  know,  for 
which  *ve  both  feel  very  much  obliged  to  you,  I  am  sure. 


62  MAEQERT. 

People  usually  begin  upon  the  weather  when  they  make 
ceremonious  visits,  and  that  is  about  all  there  is  to  say. 
It  is  really  refreshing  to  have  had  such  a  breezy  hour  as 
this.  Pray  come  again,  Mr.  Mapleson,  and  don't  bring 
your  watch  next  time  ;  at  least,  don't  IOOK  at  it  if  it  is 
going  to  make  you  uncomfortable,"  replied  Miss  Loring, 
with  charming  cordiality. 

"Thank  you  ;  you  are  so  indulgent  and  your  invitation 
is  so  alluring  that  1  am  sure  I  shall  not  be  able  to  resist 
it,"  he  answered,  as  he  shook  hands  with  her.  Then  he 
turned  to  Gladys,  and  added:  •'  May  I  assume  that  you 
indorse  all  that  your  friend  has  said,  Miss  Huntress?" 

a  It  has,  indeed,  been  a  very  pleasant  hour,  Mr.  Maple- 
eon — if  an  hour  has  really  slipped  by  since  you  came  in 
— and  I  shall  be  happy  to  meet  you  again,  although  I  re 
main  only  a  very  few  days  longer  with  Miss  Loring,"  she 
replied. 

Mr.  Mapleson's  face  clouded  at  this. 

"Surely  your  vacation  is  not  nearly  over  yet?"  he 
Buid. 

"  Oh,  no ;  but  I  only  promised  Addie  a  week  ;  there  are 
but  two,  and  papa  and  mamma  will  want  me  at  home  the 
other." 

"Allow  me  to  ask  where  is  your  home,  Miss  Huntress?" 

"In  Brooklyn." 

"  True  ;  I  had  forgotten.  I  remember  that  Huntress 
told  me  he  resided  in  Brooklyn,"  Everet  said,  aware  that 
the  "  City  of  Churches"  was  quite  convenient  to  New 
York,  and  that  he  could  run  over  there  as  easily  as  to 
come  way  up  town  to  the  Lorings. 

"  We  are  not  going  to  give  Gladys  up  until  Saturday, 
Mr.  Mapleson,"  Miss  Loring  here  interposed,  "for  Thurs 
day  evening  we  give  a  reception  in  her-honor  ;  the  cards 
were  issued  several  days  ago.  It  is  rather  late  to  offer 
you  one,  but  if  you  will  accept  it,  we  shall  be  glad  to  see 
you  with  our  other  guests." 

Everet  Mapleson  was  only  too  glad  to  get  it,  even  at 
?.hat  late  date,  and,  with  thanks,  he  took  the  envelope 
tvhich  Miss  Loring  proffered  him,  and  expressed  the  pleas 
ure  it  would  afford  him  to  accept  her  invitation. 

He  then  bowed  himself  out,  more  than  ever  in  love 
with  beautiful  Gladys  Huntress,  and  more  than  ever  de 
termined  to  win  her  love  in  return. 

He  took  a  car  down  town,  leaving  it  near  Grace  Church, 
on  Broadway,  to  go  to  a  certain  club-house,  where  he  was 
to  meet  his  friend  Vanderwater. 


MARGEliY.  63 

On  his  way  thither  he  passed  a  flower-stand  behind 
which  there  sat  a  woman  who  appeared  to  be  about  titty 
years  of  age. 

fcihe  was  an  unusually  tidy  and  lespectable  looking  per 
son  to  be  a  street  vender  ot  flowers,  and  she  Lad  a  rare 
and  choice  collection  for  that  season  of  the  year,  and  they 
were  arranged  in  a  really  artistic  manner. 

It  was  this!  arrangement  which  attracted  Everet  luaple- 
son's  attention,  for  he  was  a  great  adnriier  ot :  iiouers, 
and  was  rarely  seen  anywhere  without  some  bud  or  spiay 
in  his  button-hole. 

He  bad  worn  heliotrope  to-day  during  his  call,  but  it 
was  wilted  and  discolored,  and  be  paused  now  before  tbe 
stand  to  replace  it  with  something  else. 

He  selected  one  exquisite  rosebud  nestling  between  its 
dark  green  leaves,  and  taking  out  a  piece  of  silver,  ne 
tossed  it  over  the  vases  into  the  woman's  lap,  and  then 
would  have  passed  on  without  waiting  /or  h;s  change,  but 
that  she  had  put  out  her  hand  to  detain  him. 

t5he  had  given  a  start  of  surprise  and  uttered  a  low  cry 
the  moment  he  had  stopped  befoie  her,  but  be  had  not 
noiiced  it,  and  she  had  not  taken  her  eyes  ficm  his  luce 
during  all  the  time  that  he  was  making  his  selectic  iJ. 

As  nhe  looked  she  began  to  tremble,  her  lij  H  quivered, 
her  eyes  filled  with  tears,  and  she  breathed  with  cifli- 
culiy,  as  if  overcome  with  some  powerful  emotion. 

Her  face  was  wrinkled  and  sad,  showing  that  she  must 
have  passed  through  some  terrible  grief.  Her  hair  was 
very  gray,  and  there  was  a  white  seam  or  sc?tr  til.ove  her 
right  temple,  the  mark  of  an  injury  received  years  bffrre. 

"Oh,'1  she  ciied,  putting  out  her  I'nnd  to  detain  him  as 
he  was  turning  away.  "Oh,  Geoffrey,  have  you  forgotien 
Marge i  y  :' 

Everet  stopped  short,  looked  back,  and  attentiv(  ]y 
scanned  the  woman's  face. 

"'^Inrgery  !'"  he  repeated.  "J  never  know  anybody  of 
that  name,  nnd  mine  isn't  ("Jeoflrey,  either,  my  w(  n;;m," 
he  said,  somewhat  brusquely,  for  it  i  ettled  him  when 
ever  ho  heard  that  nanu,  which  1  e  h,-;d  prown  to  dit-like 
so  much. 

"  Hurely  my  eyes  cfin't  dereix  e  n  o.1'  rctui-ned  the  ilower- 
vender,  oni-nestly.     "J  could    never    loiget    tho  (ieir   boy 
tlifit  I  nursed  nnd  tended  during  the  first  five  years  of  his 
life.     Can't  you  r«  n •(  n  1  <T  nu-,  dpnrie?     HRV< 
ton  Lhe   chickens    rno    tie    r;  1  I  il   —  old    Chuck,  the 
iii  (1  the  t\vo  iitt..  Kittens.  Ah  !  try  to  tliink,  Master 


64  MARGERY. 

Geoffrey,  and  tell  me  what  became  of  Jack  after  he  gave 
you  that  dreadful  blow  and  then  ran  away  with  you  when 
he  left  me  for  dead,  so  many  years  ago." 

"What  under  the  sun  is  the  old  creature  talking  about  ?" 
murmured  Everet,  with  a  perplexed  look. 

"I'd  readily  forgive  him  for  the  hurt  that  he  gave  me," 
the  woman  went  on,  unheeding  him,  "and  overlook  the 
past,  if  I  could  only  set  eyes  on  him  once  more  and  feel 
that  I  wasn't  all  alone  in  the  world  in  rny  old  age ;  it's 
hard  not  to  hare  a  single  soul  to  care  for  you.  Sure,  I 
can't  see  how  you  could  forget  Margery,  when  you  were 
BO  fond  of  her  in  those  old  days." 

"I  tell  you  my  name  is  not  Geoffrey,"  repeated  Maple- 
eon.  "You  are  thinking  of  some  one  else.  I  do  not  know 
anything  about  Jack,  or  his  striking  anybody,  and  then 
running  away,  and  I  never  saw  you  until  this  mo 
ment.  " 

The  poor  woman  was  weeping  now,  and  moaning  in  a 
low,  heart-broken  way  that  made  the  young  man  pity 
her,  in  spite  of  his  irritability. 

"You  must  have  forgotten,"  she  responded,  wiping  her 
fast  falling  tears.  "Perhaps  the  cruel  blow  Jack  gave  you 
hurt  your  memory — and  whatever  could  he  have  done 
with  you  after  he  took  you  away  from  the  old  home  that 
night?  It  breaks  my  heart  that  -you  don't  know  me, 
dearie,  for  I  served  your  poor  mother  so  faithfully  when 
you  were  a  wee  baby.  She  was  the  sweetest  little  body 
that  the  sun  ever  shone  on— so  gentle,  and  kind,  too,  with 
a  face  like  a  lily  and  eyes  as  blue  as  heaven.  Poor  boy  ! 
You  never  realized  your  loss  when  she  died,  for  Margery 
promised  to  care  for  you  as  if  you  were  her  very  own, 
and  she  did.  You  were  the  pride  of  my  heart  during  all 
those  five  blessed  years." 

"You  have  made  a  mistake,  my  good  woman,"  Everet 
said,  more  gently,  for  her  grief  and  pathetic  rambling 
touched  him. 

He  believed  that  he  had  run  across  an  old  nurse  of 
Geoffrey  Huntress,  for  he  remembered  now  that  he  had 
said  he  lost  his  parents  when  very  young,  and  he  did  not 
wonder  that  she  had  mistaken  him  for  her  former  nurs 
ling. 

But  it  angered   him   so  to   talk  of   his  enemy  that   he 

would  not  take  the  trouble  to  tell  her  anything  about  him, 

and  he  never  dreamed   how  near  he  was  to  discovering 

what  had  been  a  sealed  mystery  for  many  long  years. 

"My  name  is  Everet,"  he  went  on,  "and  my  mother  is 


MARGERY.  C* 

not  dead,  neither  has  she  a  face  like  a  lily — she  is  dark, 
with  a  rich  color  and  brilliant  black  eyes." 

The  woman  appeared  still  more  perplexed  and  troubled 
by  this  statement. 

She  wagged  her  head  slowly  from  side  to  side,  as  if  she 
could  not  reconcile  his  assertions  with  her  belief. 

"Your  mother's  name  was  Annie "  she  began. 

"No,  my  mother's  name  is  Estelle." 

"Estelle,"  she  repeated,  searching  his  face  keenly; 
"that  might  have  been  her  other  name.  Didn't  she  have 
bright,  beautiful  brown  hair,  and  a  sweet,  gentle  way 
with  her  ?" 

"No  ;  her  hair  is  as  black  as  a  raven's  wing,  and  no 
one  would  ever  think  of  describing  her  as  'sweet  and  gen 
tle,'"  the  young  Southerner  replied,  with  a  smile,  as  a 
vision  of  the  magnificent  woman  who  reigned  in  his  home 
arose  before  him,  "  but  proud  and  imperious.  She  is  like 
some  beautiful  queen." 

"  And  is  she  your  own  mother?"  questioned  the  flower- 
vender,  eagerly. 

"Yes,  my  own  mother,  and  I  am  her  only  child." 

"Well,  well,  it  is  very  strange,"  sighed  the  poor  wo 
man,  tears  of  disappointment  again  filling  her  eyes.  "I 
was  so  sure  that  I  had  found  my  boy  at  last.  I've  been 
hunting  for  him  these  eighteen  years.  It  isn't  much  won 
der  that  I  mistook  you,  though,  for  you  couldn't  be  more 
like  him  if  you  were  his  twin  ;  and  yet  he  mayn't  look 
like  you  at  all,  now  that  he's  grown  up.  Ah,  Jack,  peace 
to  your  soul  if  you've  gone  the  way  of  all  the  earth,  but 
where  under  heaven  did  you  leave  the  child  ?" 

She  dropped  her  head  upon  her  breast  and  kept  on  with 
her  muttering,  apparently  convinced  at  last  that  she  had 
made  a  mistake. 

Everet  Mapleson  stood  irresolute  a  moment,  half 
tempted  to  tell  her  where  she  could  find  Geoffrey,  and  yet 
obstinately  averse  to  doing  anything  for  one  whom  he  so 
disliked. 

He  was  in  a  hurry,  too,  for  it  was  already  past  the  time 
that  he  had  appointed  to  meet  young  Vandewater,  and  he 
was  unwilling  to  be  detained  any  longer  to  answer  the 
questions  of  a  garrulous  old  woman,  so  he  went  unheeded 
on  his  way. 

All  the  way  to  the  club-house  she  was  in  his  thoughts. 
Without  doubt,  he  reasoned,  she  had  been  a  servant  in 
the  Huntress  family,  and  probably  after  Geoffrey's  adop 
tion  by  his  uncle  she  had  lost  track  of  her  charge, 


66  THK  RECEPTION. 

perhaps  by  a  change  of  residence  on  her  part  or 
his. 

He  could  not  seem  to  understand  her  reference  to  the 
dreadful  blow  that  Jack  had  given  the  boy,  nor  to  his 
running  away  with  him  afterward  and  leaving  his  wife, 
as  he  evidently  believed,  dead. 

The  more  he  thought  it  over  the  more  strange  it  ap 
peared,  and  the  more  interested  he  became  regarding 
the  matter.  Possibly  there  might  be  something  connected 
with  Geoffrey  Huntress'  history  which  he  might  be  able 
to  use  against  him  in  his  future  scheming. 

"1  will  go  back  by  and -by  and  question  her  some 
more,"  he  muttered,  as  he  reached  the  club-house,  ran  up 
the  steps,  and  entered  the  elegant  vestibule. 

He  did  not  return  that  day,  however,  but  the  next  he 
made  it  in  his  way  to  pass  the  spot  where  Margery  had 
had  her  flower-stand  the  previous  morning. 

But  she  was  no  longer  there.  Flowers,  stand,  and  ven 
der  had  all  disappeared,  and  although  Everet  sought  her 
several  times  after  that  he  did  not  see  her  again  during 
his  stay  in  the  city. 

He  was  greatly  disappointed,  for  the  more  he  consid 
ered  the  affair  the  more  he  became  convinced  that  there 
was  something  which  he  might  have  learned  of  Geoffrey 
Huntress'  life  and  parentage  that  would  ha,ve  been  to  his 
«T\vn  advantage,  and  he  blamed  himself  severely  for  hav 
ing  neglected  his  opportunity. 


CHAPTER  XII. 

THE     RECEPTION. 

Mrs.  Loring's  reception  on  Thursday  evening  proved  to 
be  a,  very  brilliant  one. 

It  was  given  nominally  in  honor  of  Gladys,  but  it  really 
was  as  much  for  the  sake  of  the  daughter  of  the  house, 
who  was  the  pride  and  darling  of  her  fond  parents' 
hearts,  rmd  her  taste  was  consulted,  her  lightest  wish 
gratified,  in  every  arrangement. 

The  elegant  mansion  was  beautifully  decorated  for  the 
occasion. 

A  platform  had  been  extended  fifty  feet  from  the  broad 
south  balcony  and  inclosed  like  a,  pavilion  for  dancing, 
while  one  of  the  finest  ba,nds  in  New  York  had  been  se 
cured  to  discourse  sweet  music  to  entice  tripping  feet,  and 


THE  RECEPTION.  67 

an  elaborate  supper  had  been  ordered   from  Deimonico's. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Huntress  were,  of  course,  among  the  in 
vited  guests,  and  Geoffrey  had  also  been  sent  for  and 
pressed  to  honor  the  occasion  with  his  presence,  for 
Gladys'  sake. 

He  had  sent  a  telegram  in  reply,  saying  that  he  would 
come  if  possible,  but  at  nine  o'clock  he  had  not  appeared, 
and  Gladys  turned  eagerly  toward  the  door  at  every 
fresh  arrival,  hoping  to  see  him  enter. 

Mr.  Mapleson  had  not  failed  to  present  himself  at  an 
early  hour,  when  he  immediately  constituted  himself 
Gladys'  most  devoted  attendant,  and  was  so  persistent 
and  marked  in  his  attentions  that  the  young  girl  began 
to  feel  a  trifle  uncomfortable  and  anxious,  lest  matters 
should  grow  more  serious  than  she  desired. 

"  Papa,  where  do  you  suppose  Geoff  is?"  she  inquired, 
with  a  troubled  face,  as  Mr.  Huntress  «ame  up  to  her, 
while  Everet  7-taplesoii  was  doing  his  utmost  to  be  agree 
able. 

Mr.  Huntress  had  been  introduced  to  the  young  man 
earlier  in  the  evening,  and  had  been  startled,  as  everyone 
elso  v,-ns,  by  his  singular  resemblance  to  the  boy  whom 
he  had  reared,  and  he  had  resolved  to  make  some  inqui 
ries  of  him  regarding  his  connections,  hoping  thus  to  gain 
some  light  upon  Geoffrey's  early  life. 

"I  do  not  know,  dear,"  the  erentleman  replied  to  his 
daughter  s  question  ;  "it  is  surely  time  that  he  was  here. 
Possibly  something  detained  him  at  the  last  moment,  and 
he  could  not  leave." 

"Oh,  I  hope  not ;  the  evening  will  be  spoiled  if  he  does 
not  come,"  Gladys  cried,  in  a  tone  that  made  the  blood 
surge  angrily  to  Everet  Mapleson's  brow,  for  it  told  him 
how  little  hope  there  was  of  his  retaining  Gladys'  com 
panionship  if  his  fortunate  rival  should  make  his  appear 
ance. 

"  I  shall  be  sorry  myself  not  to  see  Geoff  ;  he  needs  the 
change  and  recrention,  too,  for  he  is  working  very  hard," 
responded  Mr.  Huntress,  glancing  wistfully  toward  the 
door  himself.  "But  you  must  trv  to  en.loy  yourself,  nil 
the  same,  if  he  does  not  come.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Loring  will 
be  disappointed  if  their  reception  does  not  prove  a  pleas 
ant  one,  after  all  their  effort." 

Gladys1  glance  was  b^nt  upon  her  fan.  with  which  she 
was  nervously  tovinf  :  VIP r  cheeks  were  flushed,  her  brow 
slight! v  clouded,  h<>r  lips  compressed,  and  it  was  evident 
that  she  was  greatly  disturbed. 


68  THE  RECEPTION. 

All  at  once  she  turned  her  gaze  again  toward  the  door. 
She  gave  a  sudden  start. 

"Why  !  there  he  is  now  !  Oh  !  I  am  so  glad,"  she  cried 
in  a  joyous  tone,  her  beautiful  face  growing  radiant  with 
undisguised  delight,  as  she  saw  Geoffrey,  looking  more 
handsome  and  manly  than  ever,  just  entering  the 
room. 

She  instantly  darted  toward  him  without  even  thinking 
to  excuse  herself  to  her  companions,  thus  leaving  Mr. 
Huntress  and  young  Mapleson  to  entertain  each  other. 

The  latter  watched  that  graceful  figure,  a  lurid  fire  in 
his  eye,  his  lips  compressed  until  they  were  colorless,  his 
heart  throbbing  with  jealous  anger. 

He  saw  her  steal  softly  up  to  Geoffrey,  who  was  look 
ing  in  another  direction,  and  slip  one  white  hand  within 
his  arm,  while  she  looked  up  at  him,  with  a  rogueish  but 
happy  glance,  and  addressed  some  bright  words  of  wel 
come  to  him. 

He  saw,  too,  how  Geoffrey's  countenance  lighted,  how 
his  eyes  glowed  as  he  turned  to  look  down  upon  that  fair, 
upturned  face,  while  the  glad  smile  that  wreathed  his 
handsome  mouth,  told  something  of  the  joy  which  this 
meeting  afforded  him  also. 

Everet  Mapleson  read  these  signs  as  plainly  as  he 
would  have  read  a  printed  page,  and  he  knew  that  the 
young  man  loved  the  fair  girl  with  all  the  strength  of  his 
manly  natwe,  and  the  knowledge  made  him  grind  his 
teeth  in  silent  rage. 

But  Mr.  Huntress  spoke  to  him  just  then,  and  he  was 
obliged  to  turn  his  glance  away  from  those  two  central 
figures,  which  were  now  moving  out  of  the  room  together, 
and  answer  him. 

Mr.  Huntress  was  more  and  more  impressed  every 
moment  that  there  must  be  kindred  blood  in  the  veins  of 
these  two  young  men,  and  he  was  resolved  to  I'earn  the 
truth. 

But  he  was  destined  to  he  disappointed,  for  Everet 
Mapleson  repeated  about  the  same  story,  with  some  ad 
ditions,  that  he  bad  already  told  Gladys,  and  there  seemed 
no  possibility  of  there  being  any  relationship  between 
them. 

"My  father  was  a  colonel  in  the  Confederate  Army  dur 
ing  the  war,"  Everet   said,  in   reply  to  his   companion's 
query,  "and  my  home,  with  the  exception  of  a  short  resi 
dence  abroad,  has  always  been  in  the  South." 
"And  is  your  mothor  also  a  Southerner?" 


RECEPTION.  69 

Everet  smiled,  for  he  knew  well  enough  what  these 
questions  meant. 

"Oh,  yes;  she  and  my  father  were  second  cousins,  and 
they  were  married  in  1853." 

"Ah!  in  '53,"  remarked  Mr.  Huntress,  reflectively; 
"and  was  that  Colonel  Mapleson's  first  marriage?" 

"Yes,  sir;  and  it  was  a  somewhat  romantic  affair. 
They  had  an  uncle  who  was  very  wealthy,  and  when  he 
died  it  was  found  that  he  had  made  a  very  singular  will. 
He  divided  his  fortune  equally  between  them,  but  ex 
pressed  a  wish  that  they  should  unite  it  again  by  mar 
riage  ;  indeed,  he  made  the  possession  of  it  conditional, 
and  in  this  way.  My  father  was  about  twenty,  my 
mother  seventeen,  at  the  time  of  his  death.  Both  were 
to  come  into  their  share  of  the  property  at  once,  but  if 
either  married  some  one  else  before  my  mother  reached 
the  age  of  twenty-five,  he  or  she  would  forfeit  that  por 
tion  and  it  should  go  to  the  other.  If  both  refused  to 
carry  out  the  conditions  of  the  will  and  married  contrary 
to  his  wishes,  or  remained  single  after  my  mother,  who 
was  tlie  younger,  reached  the  age  of  twenty-five,  the  whole 
fortune  was  to  be  made  over  to  a  bachelor  cousin  of  the 
testator,  and  who  was  also  a  very  singular  character." 

"That  was  an  exceedingly  strange  will,"  observed  Mr. 
Huntress. 

"  Very,  though  it  was  not  more  eccentric  than  the  man 
who  made  it ;  but  my  father  and  mother  chose  to  fulfill 
the  conditions  of  the  will ;  thus  the  property  was  all  kept 
in  the  family." 

"  And  are  you  their  only  child  ?" 

"Yes,  sir.     I  never  had  either  brother  or  sister." 

"It  is  very  strange,1' murmured  Mr.  Huntress,  mus* 
ingly. 

Everet  Mapleson  regarded  him  curiously. 

"You  are  thinking  of  my  resemblance  to  Mr.  Geoffrey 
Huntress,"  he  said,  somewhat  stiffly,  after  a  brief  pause. 

"Yes,  lam." 

"Surely  you  can  have  no  idea  that  we  are  in  any  way 
related." 

"I — do — not  know,  of  course  ;  but " 

"You  do  not  know  !"  interrupted  the  young  Southerner. 
"Why,  you  surely  ought  to  be  able  to  trace  his  genealogy, 
since  he  is  your  nephew." 

"But  he  is  not  my  nephew." 

"  How  ?" 

"I  never  saw  the  boy  until  about  eight  years  ago." 


70  THE  RECEPTION. 

Everet  Mapleson  turned  a  look  of  blank  astonishment 
upon  his  companion,  while  a  strange  pallor  settled  over 
his  own  face. 

Mr.  Huntress  then  related  to  him  the  circumstances 
which  brought  Geoffrey  to  his  notice,  telling  of  his  unac 
countable  interest  in  him,  of  the  experiment  which  had 
resulted  in  the  restoration  of  the  boy's  reason,  and-of  his 
subsequent  adoption  of  the  lad. 

Everet  Mapleson  grew  very  grave  as  he  listened,  and  a 
hundred  conflicting  thoughts  came  crowding  into  his  mind. 

Could  it  be  possible,  after  all,  that  this  young  man  whom 
he  had  so  disliked,  and  was  fast  loarning  to  hate  from  a 
feeling  of  jealousy,  was  in  some  mysterious  way  con 
nected  with  the  proud  family  of  Mapleson  ? 

He  did  not  know  of  a  relative  by  that  name,  and  yet 
there  might  be. 

He  resolved  that  he  would  sift  the  matter  the  very  next 
time  he  went  home. 

"And  you  know  absolutely  nothing  about  him  previous 
to  that  time?"  he  asked  of  Mr.  Huntress. 

"No,  nothing;  while  he  was  evidently  so  young  at  the 
time  he  received  the  injury  which  deprived  him  of  his 
reason  that  there  was  comparatively  little  that  he  could 
remember  about  himself.  Of  his  father  or  mother  he 
knew  nothing;  'Margery'  and  'Jack'  are  the  only  names 
that  he  has  been  able  to  recall,  while  his  memories  of 
them  are  very  vague.  I  imagine,  however,  that  the 
woman  Margery  must  have  been  a  sort  of  nurse  who  had 
the  care  of  him." 

Everet  Mapleson  started  and  colored  as  he  heard  these 
names. 

He  instantly  recalled  the  incident  that  had  occurred  a 
few  days  previous,  on  Broadway,  when  the  poor  old 
flower-vender  had  detained  him,  believing  that  she  had  at 
last  found  the  boy  whom  she  had  nursed  so  many  years 
ago. 

His  first  impulse  was  to  tell  Mr.  Huntress  of  this  ad 
venture,  but  he  checked  the  inclination,  resolving  that  he 
would  himself  try  to  find  old  Margery  again  and  glean 
all  that  he  could  from  her  regarding  Geoffrey's  early 
history. 

He  began  to  realize  that  there  was  something  very 
much  more  mysterious  about  their  strange  resemblance 
than  had  at  first  appeared. 

It  might  not  be  so  much  a  "freak  of  nature"  as  he 
had  tried  to  think  it,  and  if  there  was  any  important 


THE  BECEI'TIVN.  71 

secret  connected  with  the  affair,  he  meant  to  ferret  it  out 
alone,  and  possibly  it  might  give  him  an  advantage  over 
his  rival  in  the  future  if  he  should  stand  in  the  way  of 
his  winning  Gladys  for  his  wife. 

A  little  later,  when  he  went  in  search  of  her,  and  found 
her  pacing  up  and  down  the  great  hall  leaning  on 
Geoffrey's  arm,  chatting  with  him  in  a  free  and  unre 
strained  way,  and  saw  both  their  faces  so  luminous  and 
happy,  and  knew  that  already  they  had  become  all  in  all 
to  each  other,  he  ground  his  teeth  savagely,  and  vowed 
that  he  would  destroy  their  confidence  and  peace  before 
another  twelve  months  should  elapse. 

He  stationed  himself  behind  some  draperies  where  he 
could  see  without  being  seen,  and  continued  to  watch 
them,  although  it  drove  him  almost  to  a  frenzy  to  see  how 
happy  and  unreserved  Gladys  was  with  his  rival. 

Her  face  was  eager  and  animated — it  never  had  lighted 
up  like  that  when  in  his  presence — her  eyes  glowed,  her 
lips  were  wreathed  with  smiles,  and  she  chattered  like  a 
magpie.  She  seemed  to  have  forgotten  where  she  was,  by 
whom  surrounded,  everything,  save  that  she  was  with 
Geoffrey. 

He  knew  well  enough  when  she  began  to  tell  him  about 
encountering  his  double  in  the  cafe,  for  he  saw  Geoffrey 
start,  change  color,  and  then  grow  suddenly  grave. 

"Is  Everet  Mapleson  here  in  New  York?"  he  heard  him 
ask,  as  they  drew  near  where  he  was  standing. 

"Yes;  and  oh,  Geoff,  he  is  so  like  you.  Even  I  could 
hardly  detect  any  difference." 

Geoffrey  smiled  at  the  reply. 

It  implied  a  great  deal ;  it  told  him  that  she  could  dis 
tinguish  between  them  if  any  one  could,  and  that  her 
eyes,  sharpened  by  affection,  had  been  able  to  detect 
something  unlike  in  them. 

"Do  you  think  you  would  always  be  able  to  tell  us 
apart,  Gladys?"  Geoffrey  eagerly  asked. 

"Of  course  I  should,  you  dear  old  Geoff,"  she  affirmed, 
with  a  toss  of  her  bright  head. 

"  How  ?" 

"Why,  I  only  need  to  look  into  your  eyes  to  know 
you,"  she  said,  with  a  fond  upward  glance. 

At  this  reply,  Geoffrey  hugged  close  to  his  side  the 
small  hand  that  lay  on  his  arm,  and  his  heart  thrilled 
with  a  sweet  hope. 

"What  is  there  in  my  eyes,  Gladys,  that  is  different 
from  Everet  Mapleson's?"  he  asked. 


72  "FIRST  IN  TIME,  FIRST  BY  RIGHT!"* 

She  blushed  crimson  at  the  question,  for  she  knew  that 
it  was  only  in  their  expression  that  she  could  detect  any 
difference. 

"Perhaps  strangers  could  not  tell  you  apart,"  she  ad 
mitted,  with  drooping  lids;  "probably  it  is  because  we 
have  lived  together  so  long  that  I  know  your  every  ex 
pression  ;  then,  too,  there  is  a  certain  little  quiver  about 
your  lips  when  you  smile  that  he  does  not  have.  Your 
voices,  though,  are  entirely  different." 

"Yes ;  any  one  could  distinguish  between  us  to  hear  ua 
speak,"  Geoffrey  assented;  but  his  heart  was  bounding 
with  joy,  for  he  knew  well  enough  that  .only  the  eye  of 
love  could  have  detected  the  points  that  she  had  men 
tioned. 

Yet,  in  spite  of  all,  he  experienced  a  feeling  of  uneasi 
ness  over  the  fact  that  Everet  Mapleson  was  spending 
his  recess  in  New  York  and  was  cultivating  the  acquaint 
ance  of  Gladys. 

He  had  never  mentioned  him  in  any  of  his  letters — 
had  never  spoken  of  that  hazing  experience,  simply  be 
cause  his  mind  had  been  so  engrossed  with  other  things 
that  he  had  not  thought  to  do  so. 

"There  is  the  band,  Geoff,"  Gladys  exclaimed,  as  the 
music  came  floating  in  from  the  south  balcony.  "Mr. 
Loring  has  had  the  loveliest  pavilion  erected  for  dancing, 
and  you  know  that  I  cannot  keep  still  a  moment  within 
ear-shot  of  such  enticing  strains.  Come,  let  us  go  out." 

"Which  means,  of  course,  that  I  am  to  have  the  first 
set  with  you,"  he  said,  smiling. 

"It  does  mean  just  that.  You  know  I  always  like  to 
dance  with  you,  for  you  suit  your  step  to  mine  so  nicely. 
There  !  I'm  so  glad  you  asked  me,  for  here  comes  Mr. 
Mapleson,  this  minute,  doubtless  to  make  the  same  re 
quest,"  Gladys  concluded,  under  her  breath,  as  she  saw 
the  young  man  step  out  from  among  the  draperies,  where 
he  had  been  watching  them,  and  approach  them. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 
"FIRST  IN  TIME,  FIRST  BY  RIGHT!" 

Everet  Mapleson  advanced  toward  the  young  couple 
with  all  the  assurance  imaginable. 

He  nodded  indifferently  to  Geoffrey,  simply  saying,  in  a 
patronizing  tone : 


12f  T1MJS,  FIRST  BY  RIGHT!"  '  73 

"How  are  you,  Huntress?"  and  then  turned  to  Gladys 
•with  his  most  alluring  smile.  "The  signal  for  dancing  has 
been  given,  Miss  Huntress  ;  may  I  have  the  pleasure  of 
doing  the  opening  set  with  you  *" 

Gladys'  cheeks  were  very  red,  for  she  resented  his 
manner  toward  Geoffrey.  What  right  had  he  to  assume 
such  insolent  superiority  over  him,  who  she  knew  pos 
sessed  by  far  the  nobler  nature  of  the  two. 

But  she  said  politely,  though  with  a  little  secret  feeling 
of  triumph  in  refusing  him  : 

"You  are  a  trifle  late,  Mr.  Mapleson,  as  I  have  already 
promised  the  first  dance ;  but  if  you  will  come  to  me 
later,  you  shall  Write  your  name  upon  my  card." 

The  young  man  frowned  slightly,  for  he  could  never 
endure  to  have  his  wishes  denied,  but  he  was  obliged  to 
bow  acquiescence,  and  turned  away  to  seek  a  partner 
elsewhere. 

But  he  managed  to  station  himself  where  he  could 
watch  the  young  couple  incessantly,  and  not  a  move 
ment,  not  a  smile  or  glance  escaped  him. 

"They  love  each  other,"  he  mutte.red,  "at  least  he  loves 
her,  and  it  would  not  take  much  to  make  them  acknowl 
edged  lovers.  I  shall  be  both  watchful  and  dilligent.  I 
wish  I  knew  the  secret  of  the  fellow's  life.  It  can't  be 
possible  that  he  is  anything  to  our  family,  and  yet  I  am 
dusedly  annoyed  by  the  mystery." 

When  he  went  later,  to  claim  Gladys'  promise  to  dance 
with  him,  he  exerted  himself  more  than  he  had  ever  done 
to  be  entertaining  and  agreeable. 

He  told  her  about  his  Southern  home,  and  the  life  he 
led  when  there.  He  described  the  luxuriant  beauty  which 
surrounded  "Vue  de  1'Eau,"  his  father's  estate,  and  so 
called  from  the  broad,  sweeping  view  which  they  had  of 
the  beautiful  James  River,  which  lay  right  beneath  them. 
He  told  her  something  of  his  courtly  father  and  his  stately, 
beautiful  mother,  and  was  really  eloquent  in  his  de 
scription  of  the  spot  that  had  given  him  birth. 

"I  wish  you  could  come  to  'Vue  de  1'Eau' sometime, 
Miss  Huntress ;  I  am  sure  you  would  agree  with  me  that 
there  is  nothing  finer  in  the  way  of  scenery,  even  on  your 
far-famed  Hudson,"  he  said,  in  conclusion. 

"Thank  you,  Mr.  Mapleson ;  your  discriptions  are 
surely  very  enticing,"  Gladys  replied,  with  a  smile.  "I 
suppose  your  parents  are  both  natives  of  the  South  ?" 

44  Yes,  they  were  both  born  in  Richmond,  and  my  father 
was  a  colonel  in  the  Confederate  army  at  the  time  of  our 


74  "FIRST  IX  TIME,  FIRST  BY  HIGfllT!" 

civil  war ;  but,  as  it  happened,  his  estate  was  not  harmed, 
and  it  has  since  increased  greatly  in  beauty   and    value." 

"Do  you  remember  much  about  the  war?"  Gladys  in 
quired. 

"No,  I  knew  very  little  about  it  at  the  time,  of  course, 
I  was  very  young — only  about  eight  years  of  age — and 
besides,  my  father  sent  my  mother  and  me  abroad,  where 
we  remained  until  the  war  was  over." 

"  I  suppose  some  of  your  people  still  feel  antagonistic 
toward  us  Northerners?"  Gladys  remarked. 

"  I  presume  there  is  a  feeling  of  bitterness  to  some  ex 
tent  among  the  veterans,  but,  as  to  the  generation  that  has 
been  growing  up  since,  I  think  we  all  feel  that  we  are  one 
nation,  and  our  interests  are  with  and  for  the  Union.  But 
if  I  had  been  ever  so  bitter  toward  Northern  people, 
that  feeling  could  rot  have  possibly  continued  to  exist 
after  my  present  experience  with  them,"  and  Everet  Map- 
leson's  glance  told  the  young  girl  that  for  her  sake  alone 
he  would  have  been  willing  to  waive  all  past  grievances, 
however  aggravating. 

Her  cheeks  flushed,  and  her  eyes  drooped. 

"It  is  better  to  put  aside  all  bitterness — the  war  was  a 
terrible  thing,  and  there  were  mistakes  on  both  sides,  and 
now  that  neace  has  been  restored,  it  is  far  better  to  let 
by-gones  be  by-gones.  Have  your  parents  ever  been 
North  ?" 

Gladys  tried  to  speak  in  a  general  and  unconscious 
way,  but  it  was  very  hard  with  those  admiring  eyes 
fixed  so  earnestly  upon  her. 

"No;  they  have  been  in  Europe,  and  my  father  has 
been  on  the  Pacific  coast  several  times,  but  they  have  yet 
to  visit  this  portion  of  the  country." 

"Without  doubt,  then,  they  will  improve  the  opportun 
ity  to  do  so  when  you  leave  college.  It  Avould  be  natural 
for  them  to  desire  to  be  present  when  you  take  your 
honors." 

"Those  will  be  very  few,  I  fear,"  young  Mapleson  re 
plied,  with  a  flush.  "I  am  not  a  good  student." 

He  did  not  love  study,  although  he  was  quick  to  learn, 
and  brilliant  in  recitation,  when  he  chose  to  apply  him 
self. 

"I  do  not  believe  you  really  mean   that,"  Gladys   sr.id. 

She  could  not  believe  that  anybody  could  be  a  poor 
student  who  so  closely  resembled  Geoffrey,  who  ex 
celled.  She  imagined  that  he  must  be  like  him  mentally 
as  well  as  physically. 


'  "FIRST  IN  TIMS,  FIRST  BY  RIGHT!"  75 

"Do  you  think  it  pays  to  get  a  reputation  for  good 
sholarship?"  he  asked. 

"Perhaps  not  the  reputation  alone,  but  the  knowl 
edge  pays.  If  I  was  a  college  boy  I  believe  I  should  strive 
to  attain  the  top  round  of  the  ladder." 

"It  is  not  every  one  who  can  do  that." 

"True,  but  every  one  can  at  least  try  to  excel,  and  even 
if  one  does  not,  he  has  the  satisfaction  of  knowing  that 
he  has  done  his  best." 

"Are  you  sroing  to  be  first  in  your  class  at  Vassar,  Miss 
Huntress?"  Everet  Mapleson  asked,  studying  her  eager 
face  earnestly. 

Gladys  flushed  again,  and  laughed. 

"I  am  doing  my  utmost,  Mr.  Mapleson,  to  come  forth 
from  my  school  an  honor  to  my  class ;  and  Geoffrey  is 
bending  all  his  energies  toward  the  same  object ;  indeed, 
I  surmise  that  he  is  trying  to  gain  a  year,  by  his'being  so 
zealous  for  study  during  the  recesses." 

A  startled  look  shot  into  Everet  Mapleson's  eyes. 

If  Geoffrey  Huntress  did  gain  a  year  he  would  gradu 
ate  at  the  same  time  with  himself,  and  the  thought  was 
anything  but  pleasant  to  him. 

"He  will  have  to  be  very  smart  to  do  that,"  he  said, 
with  a  skeptical  curve  of  his  lips. 

"Geoffrey  is  smart ;  he  has  achieved  wonders  during 
the  last  few*years,  and  I  predict  for  him  a  brilliant  col 
lege  career.  I  am  very  proud  of  him." 

The  beautiful  girl's  face  glowed,  and  her  eyes  gleamed 
as  she  said  this,  while  her  glance  rested  more  fondly 
than  she  was  aware,  on  the  manly  form  that  was  stand 
ing  beside  his  hostess,  quietly  conversing  with  her  while 
they  watched  the  dancers. 

Her  companion  was  so  nettled  by  this,  that  for  a  mo 
ment  he  could  not  control  his  voice  to  reply. 

"I  should  judge  that  the  young  man  must  be  a 
prodigy,"  he  said,  at  length,  with  a  covert  sneer. 

Gladys  lifted  her  eyes  searchingly  to  his  face. 

His  tone  was  not  pleasant  to  her,  but  he  looked  as  in 
nocent  as  if  he  had  spoken  in  all  sincerity. 

"Why  !"  she  said,  after  a  moment's  thought,  "if  Geof- 
froy  does  gain  a  year  he  will  take  his  degree  when  you 
take  yours  !" 

"Yes." 

A  little  ripple  of  roguish  laughter  issued  from  the  fair 
girl's  red  lips. 

"Then  let  me  warn  you,"  sbe  said,  with  a  merry  glance. 


76  "FIRST  IN  TIME,  FIRST  BY  RIOHT!" 

"to  look  out  for  your  honors,  Mr.  Mapleson,  for  Geoffrey 
is  bound  to  go  to  the  front,  and  I  have  fully  made  up  my 
mind  to  hear  him  deliver  the  valedictory  at  Yale  two 
years  hence." 

Again  the  young  Southerner  had  to  pause  for  self-con 
trol  ;  it  was  very  hard  for  him  to  conceal  the  rage  that 
was  well  nigh  overmastering  him. 

But  all  at  once  he  bent  toward  Gladys,  and,  speaking  in 
a  low,  resolute  tone,  said  : 

"Miss  Huntress,  you  have  inspired  me  with  an  ambition 
which  I  never  before  possessed.  I  would  give  more  than 
you  can  conceive  to  merit  such  praise  from  your  lips  as 
you  have  just  bestowed  upon  another,  and  from  this 
hour,  my  purpose  shall  be  to 'go  to  the  front,'  as  you 
have  expressed  it.  I  shall  deliver  the  valedictory  two 
years  from  next  summer." 

Gladys  laughed  gleefully. 

She  never  dreamed  of  the  fierce  enmity  and  jealousy 
that  lay  beneath  all  this,  and  she  was  delighted  to  think 
that  she  had  aroused  his  desive  to  excel  in  his  class. 

"It  will  be  a  worthy  contest,"  she  said  ;  "and  I  honor 
you  for  your  resolution.  I  shall  watch  the  rivalry  with 
a  great  deal  of  interest,  I  assure  you." 

"Will  you  wear  my  colors  if  I  succeed,  Miss  Huntress?" 
the  young  man  asked,  in  a  low,  almost  passionate  tone. 

"that  depends " 

"Upon  what?" 

"Upon  whether  Geoffrey  takes  his  degree  at  the  same 
time  ;  if  he  gains  his  year  and  leaves  with  your  class,  I 
think  I  shall  have  to  be  loyal  to  Hm,  even  though  he 
should  suffer  defeat,"  Gladys  replied,  though  in  her  heart 
she  felt  sure  that  he  would  not  fail  to  do  himself  honor. 

"That  is  hardly  fair,"  urged  her  companion;  '"to  the 
victor  belongs  the  spoils,'  you  know." 

"Yes;  but  you  will  have  your  own  friends  to  rejoice 
with  you,  and  I  could  not  desert  dear  old  Geoff,  though 
he  should  fail  a  hundred  times,  "she  returned,  a  tender 
glow  overspreading  her  face. 

"Happy  Huntress!"  sneered  the  exasperated  young 
man,  for  a  moment  forgetting  himself. 

"  W"hy,  Mr.  Mapleson,  I  hope  you  are  not  offended  with, 
me,"  Gladys  said,  with  surprise,  and  not  once  suspecting 
that  this  venom  was  aimed  at  the  object  of  their  conver 
sation  ;  then  she  added  :  "Perhaps,  however,  his  colors 
and  yours  will  be  the  same,  and  then  I  can  honor  you 
both'." 


"  FIRST  IN  TIME,  FIRST  BY  RIGHT!"  77 

Everet  Mapleson  was  glad  that  supper  was  announced 
just  at  that  moment,  which  saved  him  the  necessity  of  re 
plying. 

The  mere  thought  of  sharing  any  honors  with  his  rival 
made  him  white  with  anger,  and  her  praise  of  him  had 
driven  him  nearly  frantic. 

He  saw  Geoffrey  approaching  them,  and  surmised  that 
he  contemplated  taking  Gladys  in  to  supper. 

He  resolved  that  he  should  not ;  so,  turning  to  her  with 
a  smile,  as  he  laid  her  hand  upon  his  arm,  he  re 
marked  : 

"That  is  no  doubt  a  pleasing  announcement  to  every 
body.  Shall  we  follow  the  hungry  crowd?" 

"Thanks  ;  but  I  see  Geoffrey  coming  for  me  ;  pray  find 
some  one  else,  Mr.  Mapleson  ;  I  have  already  occupied 
more  of  your  time  and  attention  this  evening  than  I 
ought,"  the  fair  girl  responded. 

"I  could  not  bestow  it  more  acceptably  to  myself  any 
where  else/1  he  replied,  in  a  low,  earnest  cone,  and  de 
taining  the  hand  which  she  would  have  withdrawn  from 
his  arm. 

At  that  instant  Geoffrey  bowed  before  them. 
"Excuse   me   for  interrupting    your    chat,"    he     said, 
courteously ;    "but   are   you   ready   to   go   in  to   supper, 
Gladys?'' 

"Excuse  me.  Huntress,"  voting  Mapleson  interposed  be 
fore  Gladys  could  reply,  and  bestowing  a  haughty,  glance 
upon  his  rival,  "but  I  must  claim  the  privilege  of  taking 
Miss  Huntress  in  by  virtue  of  the  old  saw  ' prior  tempore, 
prior  jure' — 'first  in  time,  first  by  right." 

Geoffrey  colored  more  at  his  tone  and  look  than  at  his 
words,  but  returned,  with  a  genial  smilp  : 

"That  will  apply  to  my  case  exactly,  Mr.  Mapleson,  since 
I  secured  Miss  Huntress'  promise,  more  than  an  hour  ago, 
that  she  would  give  me  the  privilege  you  claim." 

"But  possession  is  nine  points  in  law.  Miss  Huntress," 
saul  Everet,  addressing  Gladys,  and  ignoring  Geoffrey  en- 
tirplv. 

"Rpally,  Mr.  Maplpson,  you  will  have  to  excuse  me.  I 
have  given  my  promise,  as  Geoffrey  says,  and  since  he 
loaves  for  New  Haven  ngain  to-morrow  morning,  I  must 
say  all  I  have  to  say  to  him  to-nisrht." 

Everet  Mnpleson  instantly  released  her,  with  a  low 
bow  of  acquipscence. 

"Your  wish  is  sufficient,"  he  said,  with  significant  em 
phasis,  and  he  turned  abruptly  away  to  seek  some  one 


78  "FIRST  IN  TIME,  1IR&T  BY  EIGHT!" 

else;  but  not  before  he  had  shot  a  revengeful  glance  at 
his  successful  rival. 

"He  shall  have  his  pay  some  day,"  he  muttered,  as  he 
moved  down  the  room;  "he  maddens  me  beyond  all  en- 
dm-ance  with  his  assumption  of  affability  and  his  high 
bred  civility.  He  go^s  back  to  New  Haven  to-morrow, 
does  he?  Well,  I'll  improve  the  remainder  of  this  recess 
to  cultivate  to  the  utmost  my  acquaintance  with  ma  belle 
Gladys." 

He  found  a  young  lady  to  whom  he  had  been  intro 
duced  early  in  the  evening,  and  solicited  her  companion 
ship  during;  supper,  but  he  was  careful  to  station  himself 
where  he  could  watch  every  look  and  movement  of  the 
pirl  whom  he  was  fast  learning  to  adore. 

After  supper  Gladys  and  Geoffrey  stole  away  to  a  quiet 
corner,  where  they  could  have  a  little  confidential  chat  be 
fore  they  separated,  for  each  had  much  to  tell  the  other 
about  school  and  various  other  matters. 

Geoffrey  had  been  much  disturbed  inwardly  to  see  how 
devotedly  attentive  young  Mapleson  appeared  to  Gladys. 

He  did  not  benr  him  any  ill-will  on  account  of  the  haz 
ing  to  which  he  had  been  subjpcted  so  long  ago,  but  ho 
instinctively  telt  that  he  could  not  be  a  very  noble- 
minded  man  to  allow  himself  to  be  so  controlled  by  pas 
sion  as  he  had  been  at  that  time,  and  Gladys  was  too 
precious  a  treasure  to  be  willingly  yielded  to  one  un 
worthy  of  her. 

He  wondered  what  opinion  she  had  formed  of  him,  and 
he  meant  to  find  out  before  he  left  her  ;  and  after  they 
had  chatted  awhile  he  asked,  smilingly  : 

"Well,  Gladys,  what  do  you  think  of  my  double?" 

"I  think  it  the  most  remarkable  resemblance  in  the 
world  ;  but  why  have  you  never  written  us  anything 
about  him?"  she  asked. 

"I  have  had  so  many  other  things  to  write  and  think 
about,  that  I  suppose  it  escaped  my  memory ;  besides,  I 
seldom  meet  Mapleson,  as  he  is  not  in  my  class.  I  am 
veiy  jrlad,.  though,  that  he  does  not  belong  in  New  York," 
Geoffrey  concluded,  with  a  wistful  glance  at  his  com 
panion. 

"Why?" 

"Because  I  fear  you  might  often  make  the  same  mis- 
•  take  that  you  did  the  other  day  in  the  cafe,  and — I  think  I 
should  hardly  like  to  share  your  favors  with  him." 

Gladys  shot  a  quick,  inquiring  glance  into  the  young 
man's  face,  and  saw  it  was  clouded. 


A  CONFESSION.  79 

"Isn't  he  nice,  Geoff?" 

"I  have  heard  that  he  belongs  to  a  good  family,  and 
feel  that  I  have  no  right  to  say  one  word  agairist  nini ; 
still,  where  you  are  concerned,  Gladys,  I  feel  very  jeal 
ous  lest  any  ill  should  come  to  you,"  he  returned, 
earnestly. 

"I  think  I  could  never  again  mistake  him  for  you," 
Gladj's  said,  thoughtfully. 

"What  makes  you  think  that?"  was  the  eager  query. 

"There  are  certain  expressions  in  your  face  that  I  do 
not  find  in  his,  and  vice  versa ;  while  somehow  a  feeling 
of  antagonism,  a  barrier,  almost  amounting  to  distrust, 
comes  between  us  when  I  am  with  him.  Perhaps  it  is 
because  I  do  not  know  him  as  well  as  I  know  you ;  it 
would  be  natural  to  differently  regard  one  who  had  al 
ways  been  like  a  brother,"  Gladys  replied,  gravely. 

A  painful  thrill  shot  through  Geoffrey's  heart  at  those 
last  words. 

"Does  she  feel  nothing  but  sisterly  affection  for  me  ?" 
bethought;  "and  I  love  her — oh!  not  with  a  brother's 
love  ;  Heaven  help  me  if  I  fail  to  win  her  by  and  by  !  She 
is  dearer  than  my  own  life,  and  yet  I  dare  not  tell  her 
so  ;  I  have  no  right  to  win  the  heart  of  the  child  of  my 
benefactor  until  I  can  make  a  name  and  position  worthy 
of  her  acceptance." 

But  he  alknved  nothing  of  this  conflict  to  appear.  Ho 
changed  the  subject,  and  they  chatted  pleasantly  of  other 
matters  until  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Huntress  came  to  tell  him 
that  they  were  going  home. 

He  then  bade  her  good-night  and  good-by,  and  went 
away,  loving  her  more  fondly  than  ever,  but  ^i*h  a  heavy 
burden  on  his  heart. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

A   CONFESSION. 

There  was  not  much  sleep  for  Geoffrey  that  night.  He 
lay  through  the  long  hours  thinking  of  his  love  for 
Gladys,  and  half  believing,  yet  hardly  daring  to  hope, 
that  she  was  beginning  to  return  it. 

Her  manner  toward  him  during  the  evening,  her  glad, 
even  joyful  greeting  when  he  entered  Mrs.  Loring's 
drawing-room,  her  shy,  sweet  glances,  while  talking  with 
I'im,  and  the  ever  ready  color  which  leaped  into  h^i 


80  A  CONFESSION. 

checks   beneath  his  fond  gaze,  all   thrilled   him  with   the 
blissful  conviction  that  she  was  not  in  different  to  him. 

And-  yet  this  only  increased  his  unhappiness — to  feel 
that  he  might  win  her,  and  yet  could  not  without  being 
guilty  of  both  treachery  and  ingratitude  toward  the  man 
froTfi  whom  he  had  received  such  lasting  benefits,  and 
who  had  stood  in  the  place  of  a  father  to  him. 

"But  my  life  will  b«  ruined  if  I  cannot  win  her,"  he 
said,  a  sort  of  dull  despair  settling  down  upon  his  heart 
at  the  mere  thought.  "I  have  alwaj^s  been  determined  to 
make  the  most  of  my  advantages  for  her  sake — that  I 
might  be  worthy  of  her ;  I  have  resolved  from  the  first 
that  no  one  should  excel  me,  and  that  when  I  should  be 
through  with  my  college  course  I  would  battle,  with  all  the 
energy  i  possess,  for  a  high  position  in  the  world  to  offer 
her.  But  what  will  it  all  amount  to  if,  in  the  meantime, 
some  one  else  steals  my  darling  from  me  ! — if,  while  my 
own  lips  are  sealed,  from  a  sense  of  honor,  some  other 
man  wins  the  heart  I  covet,  and  I  have  to  see  her  become 
his  wife?  Good  heavens!  I  could  not  bear  it — it  would 
destroy  my  ambition — it  would  make  a  wreck  of  me." 

He  tossed  and  turned  upon  his  pillow  in  an  agony  of  un 
rest  and  apprehension,  the  future  looking  darker  and 
more  hopeless  to  him  with  every  waning  hour,  and  when 
at  l3st  morning  dawned  he  arose  looking  haggard  and 
almost  ill  from  the  conflict  through  which  he  had  passed. 

When  the  breakfast  bell  rang  he  shrank,  with  positive 
pain,  from  going  below  to  meet  his  kind  friends  with  this 
harden  on  his  heart. 

But  he  stopped  suddenly  while  in  the  act  of  crossing  the 
threshold  of  his  room,  his  eye  lightin'g,  a  vivid  flush  ris 
ing  to  his  brow,  as  some  thought  flashed  upon  his 
mind. 

"I  will  do  it,"  he  murmured,  resolute  lines  settling 
about  his  mouth.  "I  will  go  directly  to  Uncle  August  and 
confess  my  love  for  Gladys  in  a  manly,  straightforward 
way,  and  if  he  does  not  oppose  me — if  he  betrays  no  re- 
pugnanco  to  such  a  union,  I  will  no  longer  conceal  my 
feelings  from  her,  although  it  may  be  years  before  I  shall 
dare  to  ask  her  to  share  my  fortunes.  I  know  if  I  can 
have  before  me  the  hope  that  she  will  some  day  become 
my  wife,  that  no  goal  will  be  too  difficult  for  me  to  attain. 
I  shall  be  able  to  remove  mountains,  for  her  dear  sake. 
But  if  he  shrinks  in  the  least  from  giving  me  his  only 
child,  I  will  sacrifice  every  hope — I  will  go'away  and  hide 
myself  and  my  despair  from  every  eye,  rather  than  he 


A  CONFESSION.  81 

should  think  me  ungrateful  for  all  that  he  has  done  for 
me." 

Having  made  these  resolutions,  a  new  hope  seemed  to 
animate  him.  the  clouds  cleared  from  his  brow,  his 
heart  grew  lighter,  and  he  descended  to  the  dining-rooin 
looking  more  like  himself. 

Still  Mr.  Huntress  noticed  his  paleness  and  the  un 
usual  gravity  of  his  manner,  and  wondered  at  it,  for  ho 
had  seemed  remarkably  cheerful,  even  gay,  the  previous 
evening  at  Mrs.  Loring's. 

"The  boy  is  working  too  hard,"  he  said  to  himself, 
anxiously  :  "he  has  too  much  ambition  for  his  strength," 
and  he  resolved  to  caution  him  anew  before  he  left. 

As  they  arose  from  the  table  Geoffrey  looked  at  his 
watch. 

"Uncle  August,"  he  said,  a  hot  flush  mantling  his 
cheek,  "I  have  an  hour  just  before  I  need  to  go.  Can  I 
see  you  alone  for  a  little  while  on  a  matter  of  business?" 

"Business,  Geoff!"  laughed  his  uncle.  "I  imagined 
that  your  mind  was  filled  with  literary  pursuits,  to  the 
exclusion  of  all  else.  I  had  no  idea  you  could  combine  the 
two." 

"I  should  not  have  called  it  business ;  the  matter  upon 
which  I  wish  to  speak  is  far  more  vital  than  any  business 
could  possibly  be,"  Geoffrey  replied,  gravely. 

"I'll  wager  the  boy  is  borrowing  trouble  over  his  re 
semblance  to  that  chap  whom  we  met  last  evening;  h« 
doubtless  believes  that  he  is  on  the  verge  of  some  im 
portant  discovery,  and  wants  me  to  help  him  ferret  out 
the  truth,"  Mr.  Huntress  mused,  aa  he  led  the  way  to  his 
library. 

"Now,  Geoff,  I'm  ready  to  listen  to  whatever  you  may 
have  on  your  mind,"  he  said,  seating  himself  comfort 
ably,  and  motioning  the  young  man  to  another  chair. 

"Uncle  August,"  Geoffrey  began,  after  pausing  a  mo 
ment  to  collect  his  thoughts,  "you  know,  do  you  not, 
tint  I  am  truly  grateful  to  you  for  the  unexampled  kind 
ness  which  you  have  shown  mo  ever  since  you'found  me, 
such  ;\  pitiable  object,  in  the  streets  of  Now  York?" 

"Why,  my  boy  !"  said  Mr.  Huntress,  looking  astonished 
over  this  unexpected  speech,  "I  have  never  stopped  to 
think  whether  you  were  grateful  or  not ;  j*ou  have  always 
shown  that  you  loved  me  and  desired  to  please  me,  and 
that  was  enough." 

"I  have  loved  you — I  do  lovo  you  ;  if  I  should  ever  dis 
cover  my  own  father  I  do  not  believe  that  I  could  give 


82  A  CONFESSION. 

him  the  deep  affection  which  I  cherish  for  you.  But, 
Uncle  August,  I  have  a  confession  to  make  to  you  this 
morning  which  may  cause  something  of  a  change  in  your 
feelings  toward  rne." 

"A  confession?"  repeated  Mr.  Huntress,  looking  up 
quickly  and  anxiously.  "Surely,  Geoff,  you  haven't  been 
getting  into  any  trouble  at  college?" 

"No,  sir;  what  I  have  to  tell  you,  you  may  regard  as 
far  more  serious  than  any  college  scrape — it  may  alienate 
your  affection  for  me  far  more,  but 

"Out  with  it,  Geoff,  don't  beat  about  the  bush  ;  I  fancy 
you  won't  find  me  very  obdurate,  no  matter  what  you 
have  done,"  Mr.  Huntress  interrupted,  although  he  be 
lieved  Geoffrey  was  making  a  mountain  out  of  some  mole- 
bill. 

"I  will,  sir;  confession  is  the  only  honorable  course 
open  to  me,  and  yet  if  I  offend  you  I  shall  dread  to  look 
my  future  in  the  face." 

"Good  heavens,  Geoffrey  !  you  begin  to  frighten  me; 
speak  out — what  have  you  been  doing  that  is  so  dread 
ful?"  exclaimed  his  friend,  now  looking  thoroughly 
alarmed. 

"I  have  dared  to — love  Gladys,  sir." 

"  You  have  dared  to  love  Gladys  !  Well,  of  course,  who 
could  help  it?"  said  August  Huntress,  his  astonishment 
increasing,  and  not,  on  the  instant,  comprehending  the 
full  import  of  the  words. 

"But — but — Uncle  August,  you  do  nor  understand;  I 
love  her  as  a  man  loves  tho  woman  whom  he  wishes  to 
make  his  wife,"  said  Geoffrey,  with  a  very  pale  face,  for 
the  die  was  cast  now,  and  he  waited  the  result  with  fear 
and  trembling. 

"Humph!  and  this  is  your  confession?" 

"Yes,  sir;  I  hope  you  will  not  regard  me  as  a  viper 
that  turns  and  stings  the  hand  that  nourishes  it,"  the 
young  man  pleaded,  with  emotion. 

August  Huntress  did  not  reply  for  a  moment.  He 
thoroughly  comprehended  the  situation  now,  and  a  great 
sigh  of  relief  came  welling  up  from  his  deep  chest,  for  he 
had  imagined  from  Geoffrey's  grave  looks  and  ominous 
words  that  he  had  got  into  some  difficulty  at  college 
which  might  hamper  him  through  the  remainder  of  his 
course.  But  it  was  only  a  love  affair,  after  all,  and  he 
had  long  ago  surmised  that  some  such  result  might  follow 
the  intimate  association  of  these  two  who  were  so  dear 
to  him. 


4  CONFESSION.  83 

His  eyes  began  to  twinkle  as  he  regarded  the  handsome 
fellow,  sitting  there  before  him  with  downcast  eyes  and 
troubled  countenance,  and  yet  he  knew  that  the  struggle 
which  had  driven  him  to  this  confession  must  have  been 
a  severe  one,  and  he  appreciated,  too,  the  sense  of  honor 
and  the  nobility  which  had  also  prompted  it. 

"Have  you  told  Gladys  anything  of  this?"  he  asked. 
"No,  sir ;  it  was  my  duty  to  come  to  you  first,  for  your 
approval  or  rejection  of  my  suit.  I  could  not  forget  that 
I  am  a  nameless  waif,  whom  your  goodness  alone  has  re 
deemed  from  a  blighted  life.  I  could  not  forget,  either, 
the  fact,  that  when  I  shall  have  finished  my  education  I 
shall  have  nothing  to  offer  her  whom  I  love,  save  my 
heart,  an  empty  hand,  and  a  name  that  is  mine  only  by 
adoption." 

Mr.  Huntress  was  touched  by  his  frankness  and  honor. 
"I  can  vouch  for  the  heart,  Geoff,"  he  said;  "it  is 
large,  and  generous,  and  noble.  Empty  hands  are  no  dis 
grace  if  they  are  honest  and  willing  hands,  backed  by 
energy  and  a  resolute  spirit,  both  of  which  I  know  you 
possess.  As  for  the  name,  it  is  above  reproach,  but  not 
more  so  than  the  manly  fellow  upon  whom  I  have  be 
stowed  it,  ami  of  whom  I  am  very  proud  ;  I  know  he  will 
never  dishonor  it." 

"Thank  you,  Uncle  August,"  Geoffrey  replied,  with  a 
suspicious  tremor  in  his  voice  ;  "  but  heart,  hands,  name, 
and  even  life  itself  will  not  amount  to  much  with  me  if  I 
am  denied  the  love  I  crave — the  world  would  be  nothing 
to  me  without  Gladys." 

"It  would  be  rather  dark  to  all  of  us  without  her;  she 
has  been  the  light  of  our  home  and  the  pride  of  our 
hearts  for  a  good  many  years ;  and,  Geoff,  to  speak  the 
truth,  I  believe  nothing  would  please  me  better  than  to 
have  you  two  marry,  if  you  love  each  other  well  enough." 
Geoff rey  looked  up  with  a  transfigured  face. 
"Oh,  Uncle  August,  do  you  mean  that?"  he  cried. 
"Of  course  I  mean  it,  or  I  should  not  have  said  it. 
Your  confession,  although  it  startled  me  a  trifle  at  first, 
as  it  would  any  father,  to  be  asked  to  give  a  "way  his  only 
child,  was  r.ot  wholly  unanticipated,  for  I  have  not  been 
blind  during  the  last  few  years,  and  it  has  proved  your 
nobility  better  than  almost  anything  else  could  have  done, 
and  if  you  can  win  Gladys,  I  shall  give  her  to  you  with 
my  sincere  blessing.  You  have  grown  very  dear  to  me, 
Geoff.  I  have  been  building  great  hopes  upon  you  ever 
since  I  adopted  you  as  my  son,  and  now  nothing  would 


81  A  CONFESSION. 

satisfy  me  so  well  as  to  have  you  become  more  closely 
allied  to  me,  and  thus  cement  evert  more  strongly  the 
bonds  that  already  unite  us." 

"But,"  Geoffrey  began,  then  stopped  short,  a  burning 
flush  rising  to  the  roots  of  his  hair,  although  his  heart 
had  thrilled  with  joy  to  every  word  his  uncle  had  uttered. 

"Well,  out  with  it ;  surely  you  are  not  going  to  argue 
against  your  own  cause,  when  you  can  have  everything 
your  own  way- -that  is,  as  far  as  I  am  concerned,"  Mr. 
Huntress  said,  laughingly. 

"But  I  wish  you  to  consider  the  matter  in  all  its  bear 
ings,"  the  young  man  responded,  very  seriously.  "You 
must  not  forget  that  you  are  utterly  ignorant  of  my 
parentage.  I  may  even  be  the  child  of  some  unfortunate 
woman,  that  was  cast  adrift  in  order  to  conceal  the  story 
of  her  shame.  If  we  should  ever  make  such  a  discovery, 
and  you  should  then  regret  having  given  me  my  heart's 
desire,  it  might  make  misery  for  us  all  in  the  future.'1 

"Geoffrey,"  August  Huntress  responded,  in  just  as 
serious  a  tone,  "  I  confess  that  such  a  discovery  would 
pain  me  exceedingly,  but- more  on  your  account  than  my 
own.  Still,  if  I  knew  at  this  moment  that  you  could  honor 
ably  call  no  man  father,  if  I  knew  that  your  mother  had 
committed  an  irremediable  error,  it  could  not  detract 
from  my  affection  for  you  nor  my  pride  in  you.  I  hope, 
however,  if  such  is  the  story  of  your  origin,  that  you  will 
never  know  it.  The  name  that  I  have  given  you  will  he 
sufficient  to  aid  you  to  an  honorable  position  in  the 
world  ;  it  is  your  character,  what  you  are  yourself,  that 
is  chiefly  to  be  considered,  and  I  could  e:ive  you  Gladys- 
provided  she  was  willing  to  give  herself  to  you — without 
a  demur.  Heaven  bless  you,  Geoff!  Go  and  win  your 
bride,  if  you  can  !" 

He  held  out  his  hand  as  he  concluded,  and  Geoffrey 
seized  it  in  a  transport  of  joy. 

"  Uncle  August,  you  are  a  royal  gentleman,"  he  cried, 
earnestly  ;  "and  now  you  have  crowned  all  your  past  good 
ness  to  me  with  this  great,  this  priceless  gift,  I  am  the 
happiest  fellow  in  Christendom  I" 

"Well,  then,  don't  come  to  me  with  any  more  con 
fessions,"  returned  his  companion,  jocosely,  though  there 
were  tears  in  his  eyes.  "I  declare  my  blood  actually  ran 
cold  when  I  looked  into  your  solemn  face  and  thought, 
perhaps,  you  had  been  sent  home  from  college  in  dis 
grace  for  some  unheard  of  misdemeanor.  Still,"  he 
added,  more  seriously,  "  I  might  have  known  better,  for 


A  CONFESSION.  85 

you   have  been  studying  too  hard  to  have  much  time  for 
mischief." 

"Indeed  I  have;  and,  Uncle  August,  I  am  going  to 
gain  my  year  without  any  difficulty,"  the  young  man 
said,  with  shining  eyes. 

"Well,  I  like  to  have  you  smart,  only  don't  work  so 
hard  that  you  will  break  down  ;  I'd  much  prefer  to  have 
it  take  you  a  year  longer  to  get  through  than  to  have  you 
injure  your  health." 

"I  shall  not;  I  am  as  strong  as  a  giant,  and  nov,  with 
this  new  hope  to  brighten  my  life,  I  believe  1  could  ac 
complish  almost  any  thing.  I  want  to  get  through  with 
my  course  in  the  next  two  years,  and  then  I  mvtst  turn 
my  mind  to  business,  for  I  have  my  fortune  yet  to  make, 
you  know.1' 

"Yen,  I  should  advise  you  to  choose  something  to  do 
when  you  got  through  college  ;  it  is  better  for  every  man 
to  have  some  business  or  profession,  no  matter  how  much 
money  he  may  have.  I  may  as  well  tell  you,  Geoff,  and  I 
do  not  believe  it  will  do  you  any  harm  to  know  it,  that  I 
have  madp  a  handsome  provision  for  you.  and  if  you  de 
sire  to  get  into  something  promising  by  and  by,  I  shall  be 
glad  to  anticipate  my  will  and  help  you  do  it.  I  have 
plenty,  my  b^n*,"  he  continued,  confidentially,  "and  if  it 
•were  not  for  this  habit  of  business  that  is  on  me,  like  a 
eon  of  second  nature,  I  might  retire  and  take  my  ease 
for  the  remainder  of  my  life." 

"I  think  you  deserve  to  take  your  ease,"  Geoffrey  re 
plied  ;  "  you  at  least  might  have  a  few  years  of  travel  and 
sight  seeing." 

"I  should  enjoy  that  if  I  could  do  all  my  traveling  by 
land.  I  don't  take  to  the  water  very  well,  and  perhaps,  by 
the  time  you  and  Gladys  are  through  college,  we  will  all 
like  to  run  about  a  little.  But,"  he  added,  looking  at  his 
watch,  "if  you '.re  g  ing  on  that  nine  o'clock  train  you 
will  have  to  be  off,  and,"  with  a  sly  smile,  "since  you  are 
absolved  from  all  your  sins,  you  can  go  with  a  light  heart 
and  an  easy  conscience." 

Geoffrey  smiled  and  flushed. 

"I  think,  Uncle  August,  I  can  manage  to  spare  another 
day,"  he  said,  "and  if  you  do  not  object,  I  believe  I  will 
run  over  to  New  York  again,  and  escort  Gladys  home. 
She  said  something  about  returning  to-day." 

August  Huntress  laughed  aloud  at  this  change  in  the 
young  man's  plans. 

44  You  do  not  intend  to  lose  any  time  in  your  wooing,  I 


00  A  DECLARATION. 

perceive,"  he  said,  then  added,  more  thoughtfully  :  "A3  a 
rule,  I  should  say  it  was  better  not  to  mix  love  with  Latin, 
Greek,  and  the  sciences;  but  you  and  Gladys  are  so  set 
upon  your  studies,  i  imagine  it  won't  hurt  you  to  season 
them  with  a  little  sentiment.  Go  along,  you  rogue,  and 
good,  luck  go  wifti  you  !  However,  I  imagine  you  need 
not  tremble  very  much  for  your  fate." 

"Do  you  think  that  Gladys  cares  for  me?1'  Geoffrey 
asked,  eagerly. 

"Go  and  find  out  for  yourself.  I'm  not  going  to  betray 
any  of  Gladys'  secrets,"  Mr.  Huntress  retorted,  with  an 
assumption  of  loyalty,  but  with  such  a  mischeivous  gleam 
in  his  eyes,  that  Geoffrey  set  off  for  New  York  with  a 
strangely  light  heart. 


CHAPTER    XV. 

A      DECLARATION. 

Arriving  at  Mr.  Loring's,  Geoffrey  sent  his  name  up  to 
the  young  ladies,  and  a  few  minutes  later  Gladys  came 
down  alone. 

How  his  heart  bounded  as  she  came  tripping  into  the 
room,  looking  as  fresh  and  lovely  as  the  morning  itself. 

She  was  dressed  in  a  morning  robe  of  white  flannel,  re 
lieved  by  quilted  facings  of  pale  blue  silk,  and  fastened  at 
the  waist  with  a  cascade  of  ribbons  of  the  same  hue. 

Her  hair  was  carelessly  knotted  at  the  back  of  her 
head,  where  it  was  pinned  with  a  small  shepherd's  crook 
of  silver,  while  a  few  light  rings  clustered  lovingly  about 
her  forehead. 

,In  spite  of  the  dissipation  of  the  previous  evening,  her 
eyes  were  bright  as  stars,  her  cheeks  flushed,  and  her 
manner  animated. 

"Dear  old  G°off,"  she  cried,  springing  forward  with  a 
glad  smile  to  meet  him,  "I  imagined  you  were  on  your 
way  back  to  New  Haven,  to  bury  yourself  in  Greek 
verbs  and  Latin  nouns!  What  good  fairy  has  sent  you 
here  instead  ?" 

"Love  !"  was  on  Geoffrey's  lips  as  he  gathered  both  her 
hands  in  his,  but  he  restrained  the  wo~d,  and  replied  : 

"Oh,  T  Canted  to  have  a  little  talk  with  Uncle  August, 
and  so  concluded  to  remain  over  another  day.  I 'have 
come  to  act  as  your  escort  home." 

"  How  good  of  you  1    I  was  dreading  to  go  alone." 


A  DECLARATION.  87 

"How  is  your  friend  this  morning?" 

"Addie?  poor  child  !  she  is  laid  up  with  a  wretched 
headache :  the  dancing  and  excitement  \vere  too  much 
for  her.  Mrs.  Loring  was  obliged  to  go  out  early  to  her 
dress-Maker,  and  as  Addie  is  compelled  to  keep  very  quiet 
in  a  darkened  room,  I  was  having  quite  a  solitary  time 
of  it  when  you  were  announced,"  Gladys  explained. 

Geoffrey  was  secretly  delighted  at  this,  although  sorry 
for  Miss  Loring's  indisposition. 

The  coast  was  clear,  so  to  speak,  for  him,  and  yet,  now 
that  everything  seemed  so  propitious  for  his  suit,  he  al 
most  feared  to  put  his  fate  to  the  test. 

"I  regret  your  friend's  illness,"  he  said,  "but  you  are 
as  bright  and  fresh  as  if  you  had  not  lost  an  hour  of 
sleep." 

"Yes,  I  do  net  feel  in  the  least  wearied,"  Gladys  re 
turned,  "and  I  had  a  most  delightful  time.  But  the  best 
of  all  was  to  have  you  here,  Geoff.  I  began  to  fear  my 
evening  was  to  be  spoiled,  you  were  so  late.'' 

"  Was  my  presence  so  necessary  to  your  enjoyment?" 
the  young  man  earnestly  questioned,  a  quick  flush  rising 
to  his  brow,  as  he  searched  her  lovely  face. 

"  Indeed  it  was  ;  I  had  set  my  heart  upon  having  you 
here — it  was  almost  my  first  appearance  in  society,  you 
know.  How  did  I  behave,  Geoffrey? — like  a  novice?" 
Gladys  asked,  archly. 

"No,  indeed  ;  you  were  quite  the  woman  of  the  world, 
and  entertained  your  admirers  as  composedly  as  if  you 
had  been  accustomed  to  such  homage  fop  many  a  season. 
Do  you  imagine  that  you  would  enjoy  a  fashionable  life, 
Gladys?" 

"I  think  I  would  enjoy  social  life,  to  a  certain  extent, 
but  I  would  not  care  to  devote  all  my  time  to  keeping 
up  style,  or  to  live  in  a  fashionable  whirl  continually,"  she 
replied,  thoughtfully. 

"  And  yet  you  are  eminently  fitted  for  just  that  kind 
of  a  life,"  Geoffrey  said,  thinking  how  few  there  were 
who  could  compare  with  her. 

•'How  so?"  she  asked,  flushing  slighter. 

"You  are  beautiful  and  graceful;  you  have  winning 
manners  and  a  cultivated  mind  ;  you  would  shine  any 
where,"  he  answered,  an  earnest  thrill  in  his  voice. 

"Flatterer  !  not  one  of  my 'admirers,' last  night,  paid 
mo  such  a  tribute  as  that,"  retorted  the  fair  girl,  with  a 
merry  laugh,  "and  it  is  quite  unusual,  I  believe,  for 
one's  brother  to  be  so  complimentary." 


68  A  DECLARATION. 

"You  forget,  Gladys,  that  I  am  not  your  brother," 
Geoffrey  returned,  gravely,  and  wondering  that  she 
should  have  spoken  thus,  for  she  had  very  rarely  as 
sumed  that  there  was  any  kindred  tie  between  them. 

She  could  not  have  told  herself  what  made  her  use  the 
word,  and  she  remembered  how  she  had  repudiated  Mr. 
Mapleson's  assumption  of  such  a  relationship ;  but  some 
how,  though  her  own  heart  thrilled  to  Geoffrey's  asser 
tion  that  he  was  not  her  brother,  a  sort  of  perverseness 
took  possession  of  her,  and  she  continued,  in  the  same 
strain,  with  a  half-injured  air  and  a  bewitching  pout : 

"One  would  think  that  you  were  rejoiced  over  the  fact, 
to  remind  me  of  it  in  such  a  way." 

"I  am  rejoiced  over  the  fact.'1 

"Why,  Geoff!  After  all  these  years!"  and  Gladys 
.'ooked  up  in  genuine  surprise,  for  the  restraint  that  he 
had  been  imposing  upon  himself  had  made  his  tone  al 
most  stern. 

"Yes,  after  all  these  years;  Gladys,"  he  went  on, 
eagerly,  toeling  that  the  supreme  moment  of  his  life  had 
come,  ''can  you  conceive  of  no  reason  why  I  should  be 
glad?  As  a  boy,  before  T  realized  what  you  would  be 
come  in  the  future,  I  was  proud  and  happy  to  be  allowed 
the  privilege  of  regarding  you  as  my  sister ;  but  as  a 
man  I  exult  in  the  fact  that  no  kindred  ties  bind  us  to 
each  other,  for  in  that  case  I  should  have  no  right  to  love 
you  as  I  do,  and  my  life  would  be  bereft  of  its  sweetest 
hopes." 

Gladys  darted  one  quick,  searching  glance  into  hia 
face  as  he  uttered  these  impassioned  words;  then  a  burn 
ing  blush  suffused  her  face,  and  her  eyes  drooped  in  con 
fusion  before  the  ardent  light  in  his. 

"Have  I  startled  you,  my  darling,  by  this  confession?" 
Geoffrey  went  on.  "Have  you  never  suspected  howl 
have  been  growing  to  love  3-011  day  by  day  ?  At  first,  as  I 
told  you,  T  regarded  you  in  a  brotherly  way.  I  was  de 
lighted  with  your  beauty,  I  was  proud  of  your  intellect. 
I  loved  and  reverenced  you  for  your  goodness  and  gen 
tleness  to  me,  and  your  patience  with  me  ae  an  ignorant, 
simple-minded  boy  ;  but,  as  I  grew  older,  a  deeper,  more 
sacred  love  took  possession  of  me,  until  I  came  to  realize 
that  my  future  would  be  a  miserable  blank  unless  I  could 
win  your  own  heart's  best  love.  I  do  not  forget  that  I 
arn  nameless,  dear,  that  I  am  only  a  stray  waif  whom 
your  father  rescued  from  a  hapless  fate.  I  ha,ve  nothing 
to  offer  you  save  my  great  love  and  an  energy  and  reso- 


A  DECLARATION.  89 

lution  which  will  enable  me  to  overcome  every  obstacle 
for  your  dear  sake.  Does  your  heart  respond  to  my  plea, 
my  darling?  .Can  you  give  me  a  deeper  and  holier  love 
than  that  of  a  sister  for  a  brother,  and  some  day,  when 
vre  are  both  through  with  our  studies,  when  I  can  obtain 
a  position  worthy  of  your  acceptance,  become  my^  cher 
ished  wife?" 

He  reached  out,  took  the  hands  that  lay  clasped  upon 
her  lap,  and  drew  her  gently  toward  him. 

She  lifted  her  sweet  face  to  him  for  one  brief  instant, 
and  their  glances  met,  soul  answering  to  soul. 

"Geoffrey!  you  have  fairly  taken  my  breath  away," 
Gladys  whispered,  "and  yet — and " 

His  clasp  tightened  about  her  hands. 

"'And  yet' — Gladys — what?"  he  breathed,  eagerly. 

Her  bright  head  drooped  lower  to  hide  the  crimson  in 
her  cheeks,  but  there  was  no  shrinking  from  him,  aa 
there  must  have  been  had  not  her  heart  responded  to  hia 
appeal. 

"And  yet,  I  know  that  you  are  far  dearer  to  me  than  a 
brother  could  ever  be,"  she  confessed. 

He  dropped  her  hands,  and  the  next  moment  his  arms 
•were  around  her. 

He  drew  her  close  to  his  wildly  bounding  heart  and 
laid  her  head  upon  his  breast. 

"  My  own  darling  !  that  means  that  you  love  me  even  aa 
I  love  you  !  Oh,  Gladys,  how  I  have  longed  to  hear  thia 
confession  from  your  lips,  and  yet  I  have  never  dared  to 
betray  the  affection  that  has  become  a  part  of  iny  very  life." 

"Haven't  you,  Geoff?"  Gladys  asked,  a  mischievous 
smile  wreathing  her  red  lips,  which,  however,  he  could 
not  see. 

"No;  for  I  felt  that  it  would  not  be  right  to  do  so.  I 
feared  that  Uncle  August  would  feel  that  I  had  betrayed 
his  confidence,  and  taken  an  unfair  advantage  of  hia 
kindness.  Besides,  it  galled  me  to  feel  that  I  had  nothing 
to  offer  you  save  my  nameless  self,  without  any  definite 
expectations  for  the  future." 

"  You  imagine  that  you  have  been  exceedingly  circum 
spect,  don't  you,  dear?"  and  now  a  pair  of  merry  eyes 
were  raised  to  meet  his. 

"Have  I  not?  Have  you  suspected  anything  of  this  be 
fore,  Gladys?"  he  asked,  quickly,  a  vivid  crimson  suffua- 
ing  his  face. 

"I  shall  have  to  confess  that  I  have — in  a  measure," 
»he  replied. 


90  A  DECLARATION. 

"When?    What  made  you?" 

"Just  before  you  went  to  college,  when  you  told  me 
that  you  were  glad  vou  had  been  case  adrift  upon  the 
world." 

"I  remember — when  I  said  but  for  that  I  should  never 
have  known  you.  It  was  very  hard  for  me,  then,  not  to 
tell  you  how  well  I  loved  you,  but  I  believed  I  did  conceal 
it.  Did  it  trouble  you,  Gladys?" 

"  N — o  ;  still  I  was  taken  by  surprise.  I  had  never 
thought  of  loving  you  in  that  way,  or  of  your  regarding 
me  other  than  as  a  sister,1'  Gladys  replied,  gravely. 

"Then  it  set  you  thinking  and  you  have  been  learning 
to  love  me  since  that  time  ?"  Geoffrey  asked,  fondly. 

"Not  exactly  'learning  to  love,'  Geofl',  but  I  began  then 
to  realize  the  fact  that  1  did  love  you,"  the  young  girl 
confessed,  with  brilliant  cheeks. 

Geoffrey  bent  and  kissed  her  red  lips. 
"Darling,  I   am  glad   I  did   not   dare  tell   you   then — I 
should  have  been  very  premature,"  he  said,  tenderly. 

"How  does  it  happen  that  you  have  'durea'  even  now?" 
she  asked,  roguishly. 

"Because  I  confessed  everything  to  Uncle  August  this 
morning,  and  he  bade  me  come  and  win  my  bride  if  I 
could,"  was  the  smiling  retort. 

"Geoff !  did  papa  say  that,"  cried  the  young  girl,  grow 
ing  crimson  again. 

"Yes,    those   very   words.     Uncle   August   is  a   kingly 

man,  and  his  permission  to  let  me  speak  to  you  has  raised 

me  from  the  depths  of  despair  to  the  very  heights  of  joy." 

"Oh,    Geoffrey,    what   an    ardent    figure    of    speech!" 

laughed  the  happy  girl. 

"Indeed  it  is  not  a  figure  at  all,  you  sweet,  brown-eyed 
fay.  I  did  not  sleep  a  wink  last  night  for  wretchedness 
of  mind." 

"And  all  for  nothing,  Geoff." 

"It  was  the  fear  of  losing  you,  my  darling.  When  I 
saw  you  so  admired  in  these  very  rooms  last  night,  1  said 
to  myself,  'some  one  else  Avill  win  her  before  I  shall  have 
any  right  to  speak  ;'  so,  after  lying  awake  all  night,  I 
desperately  resolved  to  make  a  clean  breast  of  everything 
to  Uncle  August.  If  he  had  told  me  he  was  unwilling  to 
give  you  to  me  I  should  never  have  come  to  Brooklyn 
again." 

"Geoffrey,"  cried  Gladys,  clinging  to  him,  "you  would 
not  have  left  us  like  that." 

"I  should,  dear,"  he   answered,  firmly ;    "I  could   not 


A  DECLAMATION.  91 

have  remained  in  the  same  house  with  you  and  know 
that  I  must  never,  by  either  word  or  look,  reveal  the  love 
I  bear  you.  But  all  that  is  past.  Uncle  August  seems 
even  happy  in  the  prospect  of  our  union.  You  love  me — 
you  are  sure  you  love  me  well  enough,  Gladys,  to  be 
come  my  wife,  with  no  regret  for — anything?"  he  pleaded, 
bending  to  look  searchingiy  into  her  eyes. 

"Yes,  I  am  sure,  Geoii'rey.  I  have  never  tried  to 
analyze  the  affection  which  I  have  always  cherished  for 
you,  but  I  Know,  now,  that  it  has  not  been  ot  that  calm 
nature  which  a  sister  would  feel  for  her  brother.  I  have 
been  happier  at  your  coming,  I  have  been  lonely  and  have 
drooped  whenever  you  went  from  home,  and  I  can  un 
derstand  now  why  it  has  been  so,"  Gladys  answered,  drop 
ping  her  head  again  upon  her  lover's  breast. 

"My  own  darling!  How  wonderful  it  is  that  this  price 
less  boon  should  be  granted  me  to  crown  all  tne  other 
good  gifts  that  I  have  received,"  he  paid,  in  a  thrilling 
voice  ;  then  added  :  "  But,  Gladys,  I  must  remind  you,  as, 
I  have  already  reminded  your  father,  that  you  will  have 
to  become  the  wife  of  a  nameless  man.  "Will  that  never 
trouble  you  ?" 

"Surely,  the  name  that  my  father  has  bestowed  upon 
you  will  do  very  well,  will  it  not?" 

"That  was  just  what  he  also  said,  dear;  but.  will  the 
mystery  that  enshrouds  me  never  make  you  uncomfort 
able  or  unhappy!" 

"No  ;  I  am  well  content  with  you  just  as  you  are." 

"  But — have  you  never  thought  that  there  may  be  some 
story  of  wrong — of  shame,  even — connected  with  my 
early  life?  If  we  should  discover  it  to  be  so,  some  time  in 
the  future,  would  you  not  regret  having  given  yourself  to 
me.  Gladys,  dear  as  you  are  to  me,  I  could  better  face  a 
separation  now,  than  such  a  regret  by  and  by." 

"Such  a  story  of  wrong  could  never  harm  you,  dear 
Geoff.  All  the  shame  or  guilt,  if  any,  would  rest  upon 
others — the  perpetrators  of  it.  But  I  have  no  fear  that 
you  will  ever  be  troubled  by  any  such  discovery.  I  be 
lieve  you  will  yet  l^arn  your  parentage  and  feel  honored 
by  it.  However,  it  will  n«ver  change  or  mar  my  love 
for  you,"  Gladys  replied,  with  grave  earnestness. 

Geoffrey's  face  was  luminous. 

"This  noble  spirit  is  just  what  I  might  have  expected 
from  you,  Gladys ;  yet,  I  confess,  I  am  very  sensitive 
over  the  mystery  of  my  birth,  and  I  should  never  havs 
been  fully  satisfied  without  knowing  just  how  you  feel 


02  A  DECLARATION. 

about  it.  Oh,  my  love,  the  future  looks  very  bright  be 
fore  us,  though  the  next  tvvo  years  will  seem  very  long 
to  me." 

"Why,  Geoff!  I  thought  study  was  a  positive  delight 
to  you,'  Gladys  returned,  in  surprise. 

"And  so  it  is,  but  it  frets  me  to  feel  that,  even  after  I 
get  through  college,  it  will  perhaps  be  years  before  I  can 
attain  a  position  that  will  warrant  me  in  asking  Uncle 
August  to  give  you  to  me  finally." 

"  Wiiat  kind  of  a  position  would  satisfy  your  conscien 
tious  scruples,  Geoffrey  ?"  Gladys  asked,  demurely. 

"1  would  not  feel  willing  to  take  you  from  a  home  of 
affluence  to  one  of  poverty — you  must  never  miss  the 
luxuries  to  which  you  have  been  accustomed,"  he  said, 
thoughtfully. 

"Do  you  expect  to  find  the  treasure  of  a  Monte  Cristo 
somewhere?"  his  companion  asked,  in  the  same  tone  as 
before. 

"Oh,  no;  I  expect  to  provide  a  home  and  competence 
by  my  brains  and  hands  ;  but  it  will  take  time " 

"How  much?" 

"Years  perhaps." 

"How  many  '*" 

"Five  or  six,  maybe,  if  I  am  successful ;  more  if  I  am 
not ;  I  shall  start  off  to  'seek  my  fortune'  just  as  soon  as 
I  can  take  my  degree." 

"  Meantime,  what  is  to  become  of  your  humble  servant  ?" 

"You? — why,  Gladys,  you  will  have  your  home  and 
friends  the  same  as  now." 

"And  you  will  be  out  in  the  world,  somewhere,  working 
for  me?"  she  said,  sitting  erect  and  turning  her  gaze  full 
upon  him. 

"Of  course;  that  is  to  be  expected;  doesn't  it  please 
you  ?" 

"No.  I  am  no  hot-house  plant  that  requires  n  tem 
pered  atmosphere  in  order  to  thrive  and  grow  '  Do  you 
think  that  I  can  afford  to  let  you  spend  the  best  years  of 
your  life  away  from  me,  toiling  to  give  me  luxuries, 
while  you  deny  yourself  even  the  comforts  and  com 
panionship  of  a  home?  My  father  and  mother  began  life 
in  an  humble  way,  and  built  up  their  fortune  together.  I 
am  of  no  finer  clay  than  they  or  you  ;  if  I  am  not  calcu 
lated  to  share  your  burdens  as  well  ns  your  pleasures,  I 
am  not  worthy  to  be  your  wife  at  all,"  Gladvs  concluded, 
with  an  energy  and  decison  that  made  Geoffrey  regard 
her  with  surprise. 


OUT  OF  COLLEGE  AT  LAST.  93 

"Why,  Gladys,  what  would  people  think  of  mo  if  I 
should  ask  you  to  inarrj'  me  before  I  could  provide  you 
with  a  comfortable  home?"  lie  asked. 

"I  do  not  expert  you  will  do  that;  but  comfort  and 
elegance  a>-e  not  necessarily  one  and  the  same.  With 
the  comfortable  home  provided,  we  will  begin  life  to 
gether,  and  win  our  luxuries  and  elegance  hand  and 
hand  ;  it  is  not  a  mutual  love  where  one  gives  all  and 
the  other  nothing." 

"My  darling,  1  had  no  idea  there  were  such  intensely 
practical  ideas  in  this  small  head  of  yours,"  said  Geoffrey, 
laughing,  hut  with  a  very  tender  face. 

"Had  you  not?  Well,  then,  perhaps,  I  may  astonish 
you  again  some  time,"  she  returned,  laughing,  too. 
"But."  she  added,  "I  think  we  are  both  rather  premature 
in  our  plans,  considering  that  we  have  two  years  more  of 
school  before  us.  Besides,  it  is  time  I  was  getting  ready 
to  go  home  with  you,  and  we  must  not  sit  here  talking 
longer." 

Later  in  the  day  the  lovers  returned  to  Brooklyn,  where 
they  were  received  with  many  smiles  and  significant 
glances,  for  both  August  Huntress  and  his  good  wife  were 
greatly  delighted  by  the  prospect  of  a  union  between 
these  two,  upon  whom  all  their  fondest  hopes  had  so  long 
been  centered. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

OUT   OF   COLLEGE  AT   LAST. 

Two  years  sped  rapidly  away,  but  they  were  improved 
to  the  utmost  by  both  Gladys  and  Geoffrey  in  their  efforts 
to  secure  a  solid  education.  They  saw  but  comparative 
ly  little  of  each  other  during  this  time,  for  Geoffrey  was 
so  bent  upon  gaining  his  year  that  he  made  the  most  he 
could  of  every  recess  and  vacation. 

But  they  corresponded  regularly,  each  hearing  from 
the  other  every  week,  and  their  letters  were  a  source  of 
great  comfort  and  joy  to  them. 

Everet  Maplcson,  too,  worked  harder  during  these  two 
years  than  he  had  evor  done  before. 

His  ambition  had  been  fired  by  what  Gladys  had  said 
to  him  that  evening  at  Mrs.  Loring's  reception,  and  he 
had  determined  then  that  he  would  bend  all  his  energies 
toward  securing  the  first  honors  of  his  class. 


94  OOT  OF  COLLEGE  AT  LAST. 

He  was  more  strenuous  in  this,  perhaps,  than  he  would 
have  been  if  Geoffrey  Huntress  had  not  succeeded  in 
gaining  his  year ;  for  when  the  juniors  became  seniors 
our  young  hero  took  his  place  in  the  class  with  a  record 
to  show  that  he  would  be  no  mean  antagonist. 

Young  Mapleson  flushed  an  angry  red  the  first  time 
they  met  in  the  class,  and  returned  Geoffrey's  courteous 
greeting  with  a  haughty,  supercilious  nod. 

They  had  not  met  until  then  since  the  evening  of  Mrs. 
Lot-ing's  reception,  and  the  present  year  did  not  promise 
anything  very  pleasant  in  the  fact  that  they  would  be 
members  of  the  same  class. 

During  these  two  years  Everet  Mapleson  had  seen  con 
siderable  of  Gladys,  for  he  had  resolved  that  he  would 
cultivate  her  acquaintance  upon  every  possible  occasion. 

During  his  long  vacations  he  had  managed  to  follow  the 
Huntresses  to  the  sea-shore  or  mountains,  where,  ming 
ling  in  the  same  circles,  they  had  been  thrown  much  to 
gether.  His  shorter  recesses  always  found  the  young 
Southerner- in  New  York  city,  where,  being  a  favorite  in 
society,  besides  diligently  cultivating  Miss  Loring's  ac 
quaintance,  he  managed  to  see  a  good  deal  of  the  beauti 
ful  girl  upon  whom  he  had  set  his  affections. 

But  as  yet  he  had  not  succesded  in  establishing  himself 
upon  very  intimate  terms  with  her. 

Gladys  alwavs  treated  him  courteously  and  in  a  friend 
ly  way,  but  still  managed  to  hold  him  at  a  distance,  and 
lie  had,  as  yet,  never  presumed  to  address  one  word  of 
love  to  her. 

It  chafed  him  that  he  had  not  been  able  to  do  so.  It 
galled  him  to  think  that  he  could  not  conquer  her  un 
varying  reserve,  and  make  her  yield  to  the  fascinations 
that  had  never  failed  to  win  wherever  he  had  made  up  his 
mind  to  win. 

He  still  cherished  his  secret  hatred  for  Geoffrey,  and 
was  always  on  the  alert  for  some  way  to  vont  it  upon  him  ; 
but  no  opportunity  had  presented  itself,  and  he  was 
forced  to  conceal  his  feelings  as  best  he  could. 

He  had  tried  several  times,  when  in  New  York,  to  find 
the  flower-woman,  Margery.  Indeed  he  never  passed  a 
flower-stand  now  without  peering  beneath  the  hat  or  bon 
net  of  the  vender  in  senrch  of  that  sorrowful  and  wrink 
led  visage.  But  he  had  never  seen  it  since  that  first  time 
on  Broadway,  and  he  began  to  fear  that  she  was  dead, 
and  thus  he  would  never  be  able  to  learn  the  secret  of 
Geoffrey  Huntress'  early  life. 


OUT  OF  COLLEGE  AT  LAST.  95 

The  first  of  April  drew  near. 

There  were  now  only  about  three  months  before  com 
mencement  at  Yale,  and  every  ambitious  senior  was  do 
ing  his  best  to  acquit  himself  honorably. 

Geoffrey,  however,  had  not  been  obliged  to  work  nearly 
so  hard  this  year  as  durine:  the  two  previous  ones  ;  those 
had  been  the  test  of  his  course,  and  he  had  strained 
every  nerve. 

It  had  been  a  little  doubtful  at  the  clos3  of  his  last  year 
about  his  entering  the  senior  class. 

The  professors,  fearing  tor  his  health,  had  advised  him 
to  relinquish  his  purpose  to  do  so.  Mrs,  Huntress,  too, 
was  anxious  about  him,  for  he  had  been  losing  flesh  and 
color  for  several  months,  but  Geoffrey  very  quietly  re 
marked,  in  the  presence  of  the  professors,  that  he  would 
do  his  best  during  the  summer  vacation  to  prepare  for  his 
examinations  for  the  senior  class,  and  if  he  failed  in  them 
he  would  cheerfully  remain  the  extra  year. 

Mr.  Huntress  would  not  curtail  hi  -i  in  any  of  his  privi 
leges,  and  so  again  sent  him  to  a  pleasant  spot  in  the 
country  with  a  tutor,  a  boat,  and  a  couple  of  saddle- 
horses,  and  the  coaching  went  on  as  faithfully  as  ever. 

The  result  was  that  Geoffrey  passed  his  examinations 
without  a  condition,  and  then  felt  that  his  hardest  work 
was  over  ;  he  would  need  to  burn  no  more  midnight  oil, 
and  when  there  came  a  recess  he  would  feel  at  liberty  to 
enjoy  it  as  others  did  and  gain  a  little  of  the  rest  he  so 
much  needed. 

He  was  not  idle,  however. 

Gladys  bad  told  him  that  she  would  expect  great  thinjrs 
of  him,  and  "great  things"  he  meant  to  accomplish,  if  it 
were  possible,  for  her  sake. 

At  the  beginning  of  the  year  Huntress  and  Mapleson 
were  dubbed  "the  twins"  of  their  class,  and  not  long 
afterward  it  was  whispered  that  they  stood  about  equal  in 
the  race  for  first  honors.  Some  were  inclined  to  think 
that  Huntress  would  win  the  day.  others  that  Mapleson 
would  be  the  favored  one. 

When  the  verdict  was  finally  rendered  in  favor  of 
Geoffrey,  Everet  Mapleson  swore  an  angry  oath,  although 
his  own  name  stood  second  on  the  list. 

"He  has  seemel  like  some  bad  spirit  pursuing  me  with 
some  evil  purpose  in  view,  ever  since  he  entered  college," 
he  muttered,  distorting  facts  that  would  have  seemed 
just  the  reverse  to  any  one  else.  "If  I  could  only  find 
out  the  secret  of  his  life  I  might  ruin  him,  even  now,  be- 


96  OUT  OF  COLLEGE  AT  LAST. 

fore  the  year  is  ended.  I'd  give  half  of  my  expectations 
if  I  could  find  that  old  woman  ;  but  I'm  afraid  she's 
dead,  and  all  that  mystery  buried  with  her. 

"  Well,  I  must  calmly  submit  to  his  good  fortune  in 
excelling  all  his  competitors,"  he  continued.  "I've  done 
my  best  to  win  and  I  stand  next,  which  is  some  comfort. 
If  I  could  have  stood  first  I  would  have  gone  to  Gladys 
and  told  her  that  I  worked  for  her  sake,  and  perhaps  «he 
might  have  listened  to  me.  I  wonder  if  she  will  stand 
firsc  in  her  class.  I  must  run  up  to  Poughkeepsie  to  see 
the  little  lady  graduate  ;  the  commencement  there  comes 
a  few  days  earlier  than  ours  this  year." 

However  much  Everet  Mapleson  inwardly  regretted  the 
loss  of  the  first  honors,  he  betrayed  it  to  no  one  else — he 
appeared  to  take  the  appointments  as  a  matter  of  course, 
and  spared  no  pains  to  make  his  own  oration  worthy  and 
briMiant.  But  underneath  all  this  outward  calm  there 
lay  a  relentless  purpose  to  some  day  have  ample  revenge 
upon  his  rival  for  his  disappointment. 

As  soon  as  Geoffrey  learned  of  his  good  fortune  he  has 
tened  to  telegraph  the  news  to  Gladys. 

"I  shall  not  disappoint  you — the  first  honor  is  mine," 
were  the  words  which  went  flying  over  the  wires  to  the 
beautiful  girl  aft  Vassar. 

Gladys  had  just  come  in  from  a  walk  when  she  re- 
ceivod  it,  and  the  principal,  as  he  handed  it  to  her,  mar 
veled  at  her  exceeding  beauty. 

The  rich  glow  of  perfect  health,  deepened  a  little  by  ex 
ercise,  was  on  her  cheeks;  a  happy  smile  wreathed  her 
lips.  Her  hair  had  been  tossed  about  a  trifle  by  the 
breeze,  and  lay  in  a  light,  fluffy  network  low  on  her 
brow,  which  gleamed  white  as  ivory  beneath  it. 

Her  hand  trembled  a  little  as  she  took  the  telegram  and 
opened  it,  but  as  she  caught  sight  of  the  cheering  words 
•within  she  sepmed  almost  transfigured. 

Her  eyes  lighted  and  sparkled  with  unusual  brilliancv ; 
the  vivid  color  ran  swiftly  up  to  her  temples  and  she 
laughed  a  clear,  musical,  happy  laugh,  that  rang  through 
the  great  hall  like  some  sweet  silver  bell. 

"You  evidently  have  some  good  news,  Miss  Huntress." 
the  principal  remarked,  his  usually  grave  face  involunta 
rily  relaxing  into  a  svmpathic  smile  at  her  delight. 

"Indeed.  I  have,  sir  ;"  she  returned.  "My — a  friend 
has  taken  the  first  honors  for  this  year  at  Yale." 

She  flushed  again,  for  she  had  almost  forgotten  to 
whom  she  was  speaking,  and  nearly  said,  "  My  dear  old 


OUT  OF  COLLEGE  AT  LAST.  9T 

Geoffrey,"  but  checked  herself  and  called  him  a 
friend. 

"You  need  not  have  corrected  yourself,"  replied  the 
professor,  with  a  twinkle  of  his  eyes.  "If  the  'friend'  is 
your  brother  you  should  not  allow  your  modesty  to  pre 
vent  your  acknowledging  it." 

Gladys1  eyes  drooped  half  guiltily  at  this. 

She  could  not  explain  that  Geoffrey  was  not  her  broth 
er,  but  something  far  dearer,  and  yet  her  sense  of  truth' 
fulness  made  her  shrink  from  giving  a  wrong  impression. 

"You  will  be  able  to  send  him  as  pleasant  tidings  in  re 
turn,  will  you  not?  You  have  also  been  appointed  vale 
dictorian,  I  believe?"  the  gentleman  continued. 

"Yes,  sir." 

"  I  am  almost  inclined  to  think  that  two  valedictorians 
out  of  one  household  are  more  than  a  fair  allowance,  espe 
cially  for  one  year ;  your  parents  must  be  very  proud 
over  two  such  brilliant  children.  Are  there  any  more  of 
you  to  keep  UD  the  credit  of  the  family?"  the  principal  in 
quired,  laughing. 

"No,  sir,  Geoffrey  and  I  are  all  there  are,"  Gladys  an 
swered,  and  then  tripped  away  to  reply  to  Geoffrey's  tel 
egram  with  a  jubilant  letter. 

"I  rim  delighted  with  yon,  dear  Geoff,"  she  wrote.  "Your  telegram 
has  made  me  the  happiest  givl  at  Vassal",  though  my  heart  failed  me  a 
trifle  before  I  opened  it,  fearing  that  it  might  contain  bad  news.  Hovr 
prond  I  am  of  yon  !  for  you  have  climbed  mountains  of  difficulties  to 
attain  yonr  goal. 

"Now  let  me  whisper  a  little  bit  of  news  in  yonr  ear.  I  have  won 
my  spurs,  too— if  I  may  be  allowed  to  use  lhat  expression — and  aa  I 
shall  graduate  a  few  days  before  yon  take  yonr  degree,  can't  yon  c,>me 
to  Vassnr  to  honor  the  occasion  with  your  presence?  Papa  and  mamma 
will  be  here,  but  the  day  will  not  be  complete  without  you." 

Geoffrey  replied  that,  nothing  shauld  keep  him  away  ; 
that  he  would  bo  with  her  bright  and  early  on  commence 
ment  day.  but  would  have  to  return  to  New  Haven  at 
throe  in  the  afternoon,  as  lie  still  had  much  to  do  to  pre 
pare  for  the  final  exercises  of  his  own  class. 

"Rnt  notwithstanding  his  promise,  the  train  on  which 
he  Ifft  New  Haven  wns  delayed  two  hours,  and  he  did  not 
arrive  nt  Vnssnr  until  after  the  exercises  were  opened, 
and  so  had  no  opportunity  to  see  Gladys  before,  as  he  in 
tended  to  do. 

An  usher  led  him  into  the  crowded  room,  but  the  only 
available  seat  fvas  far  in  the  rear,  and  so  situated  that  he 
could  scarcely  see  or  be  seen. 


98  OUT  OF  COLLEGE  AT  LAST. 

One  of  the  graduating  class  was  singing  as  he  entered, 
and  for  a  few  moments  his  attention  was  arrested  by  the 
young  amateur  who  gave  promise  of  becoming  something 
more  by  and  by. 

But  presently  his  eyes  began  to  wander  about  in  search 
of  Gladys,  for  she,  of  course,  was  the  center  of  attraction 
for  him. 

She  was  sitting  near  one  end  of  the  platform,  at  the 
head  of  her  class,  and  looking  fairer  than  he  had  ever 
seen  her,  in  her  virgin  white. 

Her  dress  was  of  finest  Indian  mull,  sheer  and  fleecy 
as  a  summer  cloud.  It  was  very  simple,  yet  daintily 
made,  one  gauzy  thickness  alone  shading  her  snowy  neck 
and  rounded  arms,  which  gleamed  fair  as  alabaster  be 
neath. 

She  wore  no  ornaments  save  a  string  of  costly  pearls 
around  her  neck  and  a  bunch  of  snow-balls  in  her  silken 
belt. 

Her  face  was  slightly  flushed,  her  eyes  glowed  with  ex 
citement,  and  her  lips  were  like  polished  coral. 

Ever  and  anon  her  eyes  wandered  wistfully  over  the 
sea  of  faces  before  her,  as  if  in  search  of  some  one. 

All  at  once  they  rested  upon  a  familiar  face  and  form. 
She  gave  a  slight  start,  her  countenacne  lighted  for  an  in 
stant,  then  she  gave  utterance  to  a  sigh  of  disappoint 
ment,  although  a  little  smile  curved  her  lips  and  she 
bowed  in  a  friendly  way  to  some  one  in  the  audience. 

She  had  seen  Everet  Mapleson,  and  at  the  first  glance 
had  thought  he  was  Geoffrey,  but  catching  his  eager  look 
of  recognition,  she  realized  her  mistake,  and  felt  almost 
angry  with  him  for  being  there,  while  she  feared  that 
Geoffrey  would  not  ccme  at  all. 

She  did  not  catch  sight  of  her  lover  until  just  a  moment 
before  she  was  called  up  to  deliver  the  farewell  address 
to  class  and  faculty. 

Geoffrey  saw  that  she  v-  s  anxiously  looking  for  him, 
and  shifting  his  position  lie  leaned  forward  and  fixed  a 
fond,  magnetic  look  upon  her. 

She  seemed  to  feel  it,  and  turning  her  glance  in  that 
direction,  their  eyes  met ;  a  rosy  flood  swept  up  to  her 
brow,  a  brilliant  smile  wreathed  her  lips  with  one  glad 
look  of  welcome,  and  the  next  moment  she  was  standing 
before  the  audience,  her  whole  being  thrilling  with  de 
light,  and  with  the  determination  to  do  her  best  for  Geof 
frey's  sake. 

And  she  did  ;  her  effort  was  the  crowning    seb 


A  DISAPPOINTED  LOVER.  99 

of  the  day.  The  rapt  and  breathless  attention  of  the  hun 
dreds  before  her  testified  to  that,  and  when  she  concluded, 
a  perfect  storm  of  applause  showed  their  approbation 
and  how  completely  she  had  swayed  them  by  her  elo 
quence. 

More  than  this,  numerous  floral  tributes  were  borne 
forward  and  laid  at  her  feet.  These  she  acknowledged 
with  blush,  and  smile,  and  bow  ;  but  when  at  the  very  last 
an  exquisite  bouquet  of  lilies-of-the-valley  followed  the 
more  pretentious  offerings,  she  eagerly  stretched  forth  her 
white-gloved  hand  and  took  it  from  the  bearer. 

They  were  her  favorite  flowers,  arid  she  knew  that 
Geoffrey  had  sent  them,  even  without  the  evidence  of  the 
tiny  note  that  lay  twisted  in  their  midst  and  concealed 
from  every  eye  but  hers. 

Everet  Mapleson's  card  was  attached  to  an  elaborate 
basket  of  japonicas,  roses,  and  heliotrope.  Mr.  Huntress 
had  sent  up  a  harp  of  pansies  and  smilax,  and  two  or 
three  of  Gladys'  admiring  classmates  had  contributed 
lovely  bouquets,  but  her  little  bunch  of  lilies,  tied  with 
snow-white  ribbon,  was  prized  above  them  all. 

It  was  all  over  at  last;  diplomas  were  presented,  the 
usual  remarks  made  and  advice  given, and  then  admiring 
friends  crowded  about  to  offer  congratulations  and  ex 
press  their  pride  and  pleasure  in  their  loved  ones. 

In  the  midst  of  this  confusion  Gladys  stepped  aside  a 
moment  to  ascertain  what  her  little  billet  contained. 

"My  darling,"  she  read.  "I  would  not  have  missed  this  hour  to 
have  secured  a  fortune,  and  yet  I  came  very  near  it.  I  will  be  in  the 
reception-room  below  after  the  exercises  are  over.  Come  and  receive 
my  verdict  there.  GEOFF." 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

A   DISAPPOINTED   LOVER. 

Gladys  stole  away  from  the  crowd  as  soon  as  she  could 
do  so  without  attracting  attention,  and  sped  down  to  the 
reception-room  to  find  her  lover. 

He  was  there  and  alone,  fortunately,  as  nearly  all  the 
guests  were  still  in  the  hall  above,  and  his  face  lighted 
with  a  luminous  smile  as  she  sprang  toward  him,  glad 
ness  beaming  through  every  feature. 

"Dear  old  Geoff!" 

"  My  darling !"  was   all   the  salutation   that  passed  be- 


100  A   DISAPPOINTED  LOVHR. 

ween  them,  and   then   for  an  instant   Gladys  was  folded 
close  to  her  lover's  breast  in  a  fond  embrace. 

"Oh,  Geoff,  I  thought  you  had  not  come  ;  I  never  got  a 
glimpse  of  you  until  almost  the  last  minute,  and  was  so 
disappointed  that  I  was  about  ready  to  break  down," 
Gladys  said,  with  a  little  nervous  shiver,  as  she  remem 
bered  how  nearly  her  courage  had  failed  her. 

"I  was  late,  dear,  and  I  knew  you  would  feel  it ;  but  I 
do  not  believe  you  would  have  failed  even  if  you  had  not 
seen  me  at  all,"  he  answered,  as  he  fondly  smoothed  back 
the  clustering  rings  of  hair  from  her  throbbing  temples. 

"No,  I  do  not  think  I  should,  really;  but  I  could  not 
have  done  as  Avell ;  it  was  like  a  sudden  inspiration  to  me 
when  I  found  you  at  last." 

"Then  I  am  thankful  I  was  here,  dear,  for  your  effort 
was  the  grand  event  of  the  day,"  Geoffrey  said,  smiling. 

"You  are  very  good  to  say  so,  Geoff,"  Gladys  replied, 
modestly. 

"Very  good  to  say  so,"  he  repeated,  laughing.  "Why 
should  I  not  say  it,  when  your  praises  are  on  every  lip, 
and  a  pin  might  have  been  heard,  if  one  had  dropped, 
while  you  were  addressing  the  faculty  and  bidding  >our 
classmates  farewell.  Poor  girls  !  the  crystal  drops  were 
plentiful  over  the  thought  of  parting." 

"It  is  a  little  hard  to  leave  school,  Geoff,  and  all  the 
pleasant  friends  one  has  made  ;  don't  you  think  so?" 

"Perhaps,"  he  replied.  "  I  presume  it  is  harder  for  you 
than  it  will  be  for  me,  because  I  am  so  eager  to  make  a 
place  for  myself  in  the  world,  and  a  nest  for  somebody 
else." 

Gladys  blushed  at  this  reference  to  coming  events. 

"Did  I  not  see  Mapleson  here?"  Geoffrey  asked,  after  a 
mpment. 

"  Yes  ;  and  at  first  I  thought  he  was  you  ;  but  I  soon 
discovered  my  mistake." 

"I  wonder  what  he  is  here  for?"  mused  the  young 
lover. 

"To  see  me  graduate,  of  course,"  Gladys  responded, 
roguishly. 

''  Did  you  invite  him  ?"  ? 

"No.  A  long  time  ago  he  asked  me  to  exchange  tickets 
with  him  for  commencement,  and  I  think  he  has  spokan 
of  it  every  time  that  we  have  met  since  ;  so,  of  course,  I 
could  hardly  help  sending  him  one." 

"You  have  seen  a  good  deal  of  him  during  the  last  two 
years,  haven't  you,  Gladys?" 


A  DISAPPOINTED  LOVER.  101 

"Yes,  he  has  appeared  at  almost  every  place  that  we 
have  visited  the  last  two  summers,  and  he  was  always 
in  Ne\v  York  during  the  shorter  recesses.  I  met  him  con- 
Btaiitly  in  society,  and  I  didn't  like  it  very  well,  either." 

»  W  ny  ?" 

"Because  it  rather  annoyed  me  to  receive  his  atten 
tions,"  Gladys  confessed. 

"Then  he  has  been  attentive  to  you?"  the  young  man 
asked,  studying  the  face  he  loved  very  closely. 

"Yes,  quite  so,'"  Gladys  answered;  then  noticing  her 
lover's  grave,  anxious  look,  she  added  :  "You  do  not  like 
it,  either,  do  you,  Geoff?" 

"No,  dearest,  I  do  not,"  Geoffrey  replied,  frankly,  then 
continued  :  "Pray,  do  not  misunderstand  me — do  not  sup 
pose  that  I  am  disturbed  by  a  petty  feeling  of  jealousy, 
but  there  are  some  traits  in  Mapleson's  character  which 
make  me  feel  that  he  is  not  a  proper  companion  or  escort 
for  you." 

"Then,  Geoff,  I  will  never  accept  any  attention  again 
from  him,"  Gladys  said,  quickly.  "He  has  never  been 
very  congenial  to  me  in  any  way,  and  somehow  I  have  al 
ways  resented  his  resemblance  to  you." 

"  Why  should  you?" 

"  1.  do  not  know— I  cannot  account  for  the  feeling,  but  I 
have  always  had  it.  It  mny  be  because  I  have  detected 
something  not  quite  true  in  him,  and  did  not  Jike  to  have 
him  look  like  you  on  that  account,  while  it  almost  seems 
sometimes  as  if  he  were  usurping  a  place  that  rightfully 
belongs  to  you."  , 

"That  is  impossible,  dear,  and  I  am  afraid,  a  sort  of 
morbid  fancy,"  Geoffrey  replied,  with  gentle  reproof. 
UI  have  never  had  such  a  thought,  nor  envied  him  either 
his  high  position  in  the  world,  or  the  immense  wealth 
•which  I  have  heard  will  some  time  be  his." 

Gladys  raised  herself  on  tiptoe  and  softly  touched  her 
lips  to  her  lover's  cheek. 

"How  noble  you  are  !"  she  whispered,  "and  I'd  rather 
have  my  Geoff  without  a  penny  !" 

"You  will  have  your  'rather,'  then,"  the  young  man  re 
turned,  laughing,  although  he  fondly  returned  her  caress, 
"for  he  hasn't  even  a  penny  that  is  rightfully  his  own. 
But,"  he  added,  drawing  himself  up  resolutely,  "  that 
shall  not  be  said  of  me  long — another  year,  I  trust,  will 
find  me  established  in  something  that  need  not  make  m« 
ashamed  to  take  my  place  among  other  men." 


102  A  DISAPPOINTED   LOVER. 

"Oh,  Geoffrey!  who  is  indulging  in  morbid  fancies 
iiow?"  queried  Gladys,  chidiugly. 

"I  do  not  mean  to  do  so,"  he  replied,  cheerfully,  "but  I 
long  to  begin  to  do  something  for  myself  and  for  you,  my 
darling.  But  I  must  not  keep  you  here — people  will  be 
wondering  what  has  become  of  the  fair  valedictorian. 
There!"  as  steps  were  heard  approaching  the  door,  "I'll 
venture  that  some  one  is  looking  for  you  now. 

It  proved  to  be  even  so,  and  Gladys  was  in  gieat  de 
mand  during  the  next  few  hours.  Indeed,  Geoffrey  saw 
but  comparatively  little  of  her  after  that  one  interview, 
for  he  was  obliged  to  leave  at  an  early  hour  in  order  to 
reach  New  Haven  that  night. 

There  was  to  be  a  brilliant  reception  that  evening  for 
the  graduating  class,  and  it  was  quite  a  disappointment 
to  Gladys  that  Geoffrey  could  not  be  present,  but  she 
strove  to  make  the  best  of  it,  knowing  that  they  would 
meet  again  in  a  few  days  ;  besides  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Huntress 
were  to  remain  to  accompany  her  when  she  should  leave 
the  next  day. 

Everet  Mapleson  also  remained. 

He  had  hardly  been  able  to  get  a  word  with  Gladys  all 
day,  and  when  he  found  that  Geoffrey  was  obliged  to 
leave,  he  resolved  that  he  would  attend  the  reception  arid 
devote  himself  to  the  fair  girl  whom  he  was  learning 
every  hour  to  love  more  devotedly. 

When  he  presented  himself  in  the  evening  before  her  a 
slight  frown  contracted  her  brow,  and  for  a  moment  she 
•was  tempted  to  pass  on  and  leave  him  to  himself.  But  he 
made  that  impossible  by  instantly  taking  his  stand  by 
her  side,  and  devoting  himself  exclusively  to  her,  and 
thus  it  was  out  of  her  power  to  avoid  him  without  being 
positively  rude. 

"Well,  all  this  will  soon  end,"  she  said  to  herself,  with  a 
sigh  of  resignation,  "and  for  once  I  may  as  well  surrender 
myself  to  the  inevitable  ;  after  he  leaves  college  we  shall 
probably  not  meet  again,  and  I  should  not  like  to  have 
it  on  my  conscience  that  I  had  been  rude  even  to  him." 

She  introduced  him  to  several  of  her  classmates,  and 
tried  thus  to  attract  his  attention  from  herself  and  slip 
away  unobserved  ;  but  at  her  first  movement  he  was  at 
her  side. 

During  the  latter  part  of  the  evening  he  managed  to 
draw  her  into  the  circle  of  promenaders  who  were  pacing 
up  and  down  the  main  hall,  to  the  delicious  strains  of  a 
fine  band,  where,  after  a  few  turns  he  led  her,  almost  be- 


A  DISAPPOINTED  LOVER.  ica 

fore  she  was  aware  of  his  intention,  to  a  balcony  at  one 
end,  and  out  of  the  hearing  of  the  crowd  within. 

"Perhaps  I  am  taking  a  great  liberty,  Miss  Huntress," 
he  began,  before  she  could  utter  a  word  of  protest,  "but  I 
must  Did  you  good-night  presently,  and  I  have  something 
very  important  which  I  wish  to  say  to  you  first." 

Gladys  shivered  at  his  words,  although  the  night  was 
intensely  warm,  for  instinctively  she  knew  why  he  had 
brought  her  there. 

But  she  could  not  help  herself  now,  and  she  thought 
perhaps  it  would  be  best  to  have  their  future  relations 
definitely  settled  once  for  all. 

"  I  am  obliged  to  return  to  New  York  on  the  midnight 
train,"  the  young  man  continued,  "  but  I  could  not  go  with 
out  first  telling  you  what  has  long  been  burning  on  my 
lips  for  utterance.  Gladys,  I  love  you,  and  all  my  future 
happiness  depends  upon  my  winning  you  to  be  my  wife. 
Will  you  give  me  your  love  in  return?  will  you  give  me 
yourself?" 

It  was  a  manly,  straightforward   declaration,  and  wor 
thy  a  better  man  than  Everet  Mapleson  was  at  that  time. 
It  impressed  Gladys  as  being  earnest  and   genuine,  and 
she  was  grieved  to  know  that  she  must  wound  and  disap 
point  him. 

"I  cannot  tell  you  how  sorry  I  am,  Mr.  Mppleson,  that 
you  should  have  said  this  to  me,"  she  returned,  in  a  low, 
pained  tone,  "for  I  cannot  respond  as  you  desire ;  my  an 
swer  must  be  a  decided  refusal  of  your  suit." 

"Do  not  say  that !"  he  burst  out  in  an  agonized  tone. 
"Oh,  my  darling,  you  nuist  not  ruin  my  life  with  one  fa 
tal  blow.  Let  me  wait — ever  so  long,  if  I  may  only  hope 
that  some  day  you  will  be  mine." 

"I  cannot  let  you  hope,"  Gladys  replied,  greatly  agi 
tated,  "what  I  have  said  must  be  final.  I  do  not  love 
you — I  can  never  become  your  wife." 

"Perhaps  you  do  not  love  me  now,  but  you  can  lenrn  to 
do  so  ;  I  will  teach  you.  I  will  be  very  patient ;  I  will  not 
press  you.  Oh,  Gladys,  my  beautiful,  brown-haired  dar 
ling,  do  not  break  my  lu  art !  do  rot  ruin  my  life  !" 

A  quivering  sigh  burst  trom  the  young  girl's  pale  lips. 
No  one  can  tell  how  painful  the  interview  had  become  to 
her.  for  she  saw  that  he  was  a  lover  in  deadly  earnest, 
and  that  his  affection  for  her  was  deep  and  true. 

She  impulsively  reached  out  her  hand  and  laid  it  upon 
bis  arm. 

"Mr.  Mapleson,"  she   pleaded,  "pray  do  not  importune 


104  A  DISAPPOINTED   LOVER. 

me  further  ;  for,  truly,  I  can  give  you  no  other  answer ; 
my  feelings  can  never  change  ;  I  do  not  love  you — I  can 
never  love  you." 

He  seized  her  hand  in  an  eager,  trembling  grasp,  and 
bent  his  proud  head  until  his  forehead  rested  upon  it. 

"Why  do  you  say  that?"  he  cried,  "that  you  can  never 
love  me?  You  do  not  know.  I  will  serve  for  you — I  will 
prove  my  devotion  ;  oh !  give  me  time,  Gladys,  before 
you  discard  me  utterly,  and  no  slave  ever  served  more 
faithfully  for  the  coveted  gift  of  freedom,  than  I  will 
serve,  in  any  way,  to  win  you,  my  fair  love." 

"No,  no;  please  say  no  more,  it  is  useless,"  she  mur 
mured,  brokenly. 

He  raised  bin  head  and  looked  eagerly  into  her  face. 

"There  can  be  but  one  reason  for  such  a  persistent  re 
fusal,  such  a  decided  answer,"  he  said,  in  a  low,  concen 
trated  tone  ;  "you  have  given  the  wealth  of  your  love  to 
another  !" 

Even  by  the  dim  light  of  the  moon  which  came  strug 
gling  in  upon  them  through  the  network  of  vines  upon 
the  balcony,  he  could  see  the  vivid  color  which  shot  up 
over  her  cheek  and  brow,  and  dyed  even  the  fair  shoul 
ders,  beneath  their  gauzy  covering,  at  this  direct  charge. 

He  grew  pale  as  death. 

"  It  is  true  !  I  know  it  must  be  true  !"  he  said,  in  the 
tones  of  one  who  has  suddenly  been  calmed  or  benumbed 
by  a  terrible  shock. 

"You  never  could  have  resisted  an  appeal  like  mine," 
he  weni  on,  between  his  tightly  shut  teeth,  "if  it  were 
not  so.  Tell  me,"  he  continued,  growing  excited  again, 
"is  it  so?  have  I  guessed  rightly?" 

There  was  so  much  of  concentrated  passion  in  his  voice, 
and  such  an  authoritative  ring  in  his  tone,  that  it  aroused 
something  of  resentment  and  antagonism  in  Gladys' 
heart,  in  spite  of  her  sympathy  for  him. 

She  turned  and  faced  him,  standing  straight  and  tall 
and  calm  before  him. 

"You  have  no  right  to  speak  in  this  way  to  me,  Mr. 
Mapleson,"  she  said,  with  quift  dignity,  "and  T  am  under 
no  obligation  to  explain  why  I  do  not  favor  your  suit. 
The  chief  reason  in  nny  such  case.  T  think,  is  that  per 
sons  are  not  congenial  to  each  other." 

"Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  I  am  not  congenial  to 
you.  Miss  Huntress?"  the  young  man  interrupted,  almost 
fiercely. 

"You    have    it    in   your  power   to    be  a  very  pleasant 


A  LONG  AND  INTERESTING  CONVERSATION.         105 

friend,  Mr.  Mapleson ;  but  more  than  that  you  could 
never  be  to  me  under  any  circumstances,"  Gladys  an 
swered,  coldly.  Her  tone  more  than  her  words  drove 
him  almost  to  despair. 

"Tell  me,  is  it  because  you  love  another?"  he  persisted. 

"I  could  not  truthfully  give  that  as  the  reason." 

"That  does  not  answer  me.  Do  you  love  some  one 
else  ?" 

"  Yes,"  answered  the  beautiful  girl,  briefly  and  proudlv. 

"  Are  you  betrothed  ?" 

Gladys  lifted  her  head  haughtily. 

"Mr.  Mapleson,"  she  said,  "I  question  your  right  to 
interrogate  me  in  this  authoritative  manner,  but  if  a  plain 
answer  Avill  convince  you  that  there  can  be  no  change  in 
my  decision,  I  am  willing  to  acknowledge  to  you  that  I 
am  pledged  to  another." 

"To  Geoffrey  Huntress?"  Everet  Mapleson  demanded, 
hoarsely. 

"Yes,  to  Geoffrey,"  she  repeated,  with  a  tender  intona 
tion  of  the  name  that  betrayed  how  dear  it  was  to  her." 

At  this  confession  the  young  man  dropped  the  hand 
that  he  had  clung  to  in  spite  of  her  efforts  to  release  it, 
as  if  it  had  been  a  coal  of  fire,  all  the  evil  in  his  nature 
aroused  by  this  triumph  of  his  enemy  over  him. 

"That  low-born  beggar  !"  he  hissed.- 

"Sir!" 

He  shrank  for  an  instant  beneath  the  word  ns  if  she  had 
smitten  him.  Then  his  passion  swept  all  before  it  once 
more. 

" He  has  opposed  and  thwarted  me  from  the  first  mo 
ment  of  our  meeting.  He  offered  me  an  indignity  om-e, 
which  I  have  never  forgotten  or  forgiven  ;  he  has  robbed 
me  of  my  honors  at  college  and  now  he  has  robbod  me  of 
you  !  7 — hate— him!  and  he  shall  yet  feel  the  force  of  my 
hatred  in  a  way  to  make  him  wish  that  he  had  never 
crossed  my  path." 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

A   LONG  AND  INTERESTING    CONVERSATION. 

It  is  impossible  to  convey  any  idea  of  the  anger,  malice, 
and  venom  contained  in  these  fiercely  uttered  words,  and 
before  Gladys  could  collect  herself  sufficiently  to  make 
any  reply — before  she  was  even  aware  of  his  intention — 
he  had  sprung  past  her  and  disappeared  within  the  hall, 


106         A  LONG  AND  INTERESTING  CONVERSATION. 

leaving  her  alone  upon   the  balcony,  and   ehe  saw  him  no 
more  that  night. 

"Mercy  !  what  a  volcanic  nature,"  she  murmured,  with 
a  sigh  of  relief  over  his  departure.  "  I  should  pra}r  to  be 
delivered  from  a  life  with  such  a  person,  let  alone  trying 
to  learn  to  love  him  No,  there  can  be  no  relationship 
between  Geoffrey  and  Everet  Mapleson,  as  I  have  some 
times  imagined  there  might  be.  My  Geoff  is  a  noble- 
hearted  gentleman ;  he  could  never  forget  himself  and 
give  the  rein  to  passion  as  this  fiery  young  man  has  done 
to-night.  I  hope  I  shall  never  meet  him  again." 

She  sat  down  a  moment  on  the  low  railing  of  the  bal 
cony  to  recover  herself  a  little  more  fully  before  return 
ing  to  the  company. 

"I  wonder,"  she  mused,  "what  he  meant  by  Geoffrey 
thwarting  him,  and  what  imaginary  indignity — for  it 
could  have  been  nothing  more  than  that — he  offered 
him  ;  and  how  could  he  have  robbed  him  of  his  honors  at 
college?  I  will  ask  him  when  we  go  to  New  Haven." 

A  little  later  she  rejoined  her  friends,  but  all  enjoy 
ment  had  been  spoiled  for  her,  and  seeking  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Huntress,  she  intimated  that  she  was  very  weary  after 
the  excitement  of  the  day,  and  they  were  quite  willing  to 
retire  with  her,  knowing  well  thnt  she  needed  rest. 

The  next  morning  Gladys  bade  a  long  farewell  to  her 
classmates  and  teachers,  and  then,  with  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Huntress,  left  for  New  Haven  to  attend  the  commence 
ment  exercises  at  Yale. 

We  cannot  linger  over  these,  or  even  particularize 
much.  Suffice  it  to  say  that  Geoffrey  acquitted  himself 
most  nobly,  and  Mr.  Huntress  was  as  proud  of  him  as  if 
he  had  really  been  his  own  son. 

His  oration  was  one  that  was  long  remembered  by  his 
class  with  great  pleasure,  and  was  highly  commended  by 
the  faculty. 

Everet  Mapleson  also  shone  upon  this  occasion.  He 
had  worked  harder  during  this  last  year  than  hn  had  ever 
worked  before  during  his  college  life.  A  feeling:  of  an 
tagonism  against  Geoffrey,  and  a  desire  to  win  Gladys1 
favor,  had  spurred  him  on  to  strive  for  the  post  of  honor 
in  his  class,  and  the  disappointment  at  his  failure  was  a 
bitter  one. 

It  created  a  good  deal  of  surprise  and  comment  that 
two  young  men  so  nearly  resembling  each  other,  and  yet 
in  no  way  related,  should  stand  so  high  in  their  class,  and 
be  such  brilliant  scholars. 


A  LONG  AND  INTERESTING  CONVERSATION.         107 

Mrs.  Mapleson,  who  had  come  on  from  the  South  to  be 
present  upon  the  occasion,  was  strangely  impressed  by 
the  circumstance. 

Colonel  Mapleson  had  been  called  out  West  on  business, 
and  could  not  return  in  season  to  accompany  her,  so  she 
had  been  forced  to  come  alone. 

She  was  a  magnificent-looking  woman ;  tall,  with  a 
stately  figure,  a  brilliant  brunette  complexion,  with  dark 
hair  and  eyes,  and  beautiful  teeth,  such  as  a  youthful 
belle  of  twenty  might  envy. 

"It  is  the  strangest  thing  in  the  world,  Everet,"  she 
remarked  to  her  son  after  the  exercises  of  the  day  were 
concluded.  "Iriean  this  wonderful  resemblance  between 
you  and  that  young  man.  If  I  had  not  known  the  Maple- 
eons  all  my  life,  and  that  our  family  is  the  last  of  the 
race,  I  should  be  tempted  to  believe  that  he  belonged  to 
us  in  some  way." 

"Pshaw  !  mother,  that  is  all  nonsense  !"  her  son  re 
plied,  a  hot  flush  of  resentment  rising  to  his  brow. 
"Don't,  for  pity's  sake,  suggest  that  any  of  our  blood 
flows  in  his  veins  !" 

"Why,  Everet?  Reappears  like  a  fine  fellow — hand, 
some,  manly,  and  he  is  certainy  extremely  clever,"  re 
turned  Mrs.  Mnpleson,  with  some  surprise. 

"Granted;  though  that  may  sound  rather  egotistical, 
since  we  are  considered  the  counterparts  of  each  other; 
but  for  all  that  he  has  been  a  thorn  in  the  flesh  and  a 
marplot  to  me  ever  since  he  entered  college,  and  I  detest 
him  !" 

"That  is  not  a  very  good  spirit,  I'm  afraid,  Ev.,"  Mrs. 
Mapleson  said,  chidingly.  "But  who  is  he?  Geoffrey  D. 
Huntress,  I  believe,  was  the  name  on  the  programme, 
but  where  does  he  belong,  and  what  is  his  family?" 

"Nobody  knows  who  or  what  he  is;  there  is  a  queer 
story  connected  with  his  life.  I  heard,  while  I  was  in 
New  York,  that  this  Mr.  Huntress  found  him  several 
years  ago  wandering  in  the  streets  of  the  city  in  a  de- 
mentod  condition.  He  became  interested  in  him,  took 
him  to  some  hospital,  and  had  an  operation  performed — a 
piece  of  bone  was  pressing  upon  the  brain,  and  was  re 
moved,  I  believe,  and  he  recovered  his  senses  immedipte- 
Iv.  but  appeared  more  like  a  child  five  years  old  rather 
than  like  a  boy  in  bin  teens." 

"Row  very  strange  !"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Mapleson,  deeply 
interested  ;  "but  rould  he  tell  nothing  about  himself  after 
his  mind  was  restored  ?" 


108         A  LONG  AND  INTERESTING  CONVERSATION. 

"No,  nothing  of  any  consequence;  all  that  he  could  re 
member  of  his  previous  life  was  that  he  had  lived  with 
some  people  named  Margery  and  Jack,  and  that  his  name 
was  Geoffrey  Dale " 

"Dale!  D.ile!"  repeated  Mrs.  Mapl<snn,  with  a  start. 
"There  used  to  he  a  family  of  Dales  Irvine  near  Vue  de 
1'Eau  before  I  was  iraivitd  ;  at  least  tl.f  re  was  a  widow 
and  her  daughter,  a  girl  named  Annie.  They  were  poor 
people;  they  lived  in  one  of  those  cottrgf  s  near  the  old 
mill,  and  after  the  mother  died  thepiil  suddenly  disap 
peared,  and  was  never  heard  of  again." 

"Mother,  what  is  this  you  are  telling  ire?"  cried  young 
Mapleson,  a  strange  look  fl:  siring  over  his  face.  "The 
girl  went  awav  and  never  came  hack?'' 

"Yes." 

"Where  did  she  go?  She  must  have  had  some  especial 
place  in  view  when  she  started." 

"She  said  she  was  going  to  "Richmond  to  serve  as  por- 
erness  in  some  family  ;  that  was  the  last  I  ever  heard  of 
her." 

Everet  Mapleson's  eyes  glowed. 

"Aha!"  he  thought;  "who  knows  but  what  I  have  at 
last  found  a  clew  to  the  fellow's  birth? 

"Dale,  Dale,"  he,  too,  repeated  thoughtfully,  "wasn't 
that  the  name  of  that  queer  old  codger  who  was  to  have 
had  Uncle  Jahez's  fortune,  if  you  and  father  didn't  fulfill 
the  conditions  of  his  will  ?" 

."Yes,  Robert  Dale.  He  was  a  cousin  of  Uncle'  Jabez, 
and  considerably  younger  than  he,  and  I  suppose  he 
would  have  had  all  the  money,  if  your  father  and  I  had 
been  contrary." 

"It  was  the  most  eccentric  will  I  ever  heard  of,"  said 
Everet,  rmi singly. 

"It  was  indeed." 

"What  could  have  prompted  him  to  make  it?" 

"Your  father  was  his  bi-olher's  only  son.  and  the  last  of 
the  Maplesons.  I  was  a  favorite  niece,  the  dciuphter  of 
his  sister,  and  I  suppose  he  did  not  wish  the  wealth  which 
it  had  tnken  so  many  years  to  accumulate,  to  be  divided, 
yet  he  desired  to  have  it  benefit  his  relatives,  and  so  took 
this  way  to  accomplish  it." 

A  little  sigh  escaped  Mrs.  Mapleson  as  she  con 
cluded. 

Her  son  noticed  it,  and  shot  a  searching  glance  into  her 
face. 

"Mother,"  he  said,  as  if  some  strange  thought  had  sud- 


A  LONG  AND  INTERESTING  CONVERSATION.         109 

denly  come  to  him,  "  it  has  never  occurred    to  me  before, 
but  were  the  conditions  of  that  will  obnoxious  to  you?" 

Mrs.  Mapleson  colored  a  vivid  red  at  this  unexpected 
question. 

"You  are  touching  upon  rather  delicate  ground,  Everet, 
and  this  is  hardly  the  time  or  place  for  the  discussion  of 
such  a  matter,"  she  replied,  gravely  ;  "but  since  you 
have  asked  the  question,  I  will  tell  you  the  truth 
about  it." 

"  You  need  not  tell  me  anything  if  the  subject  is  painful 
to  you,"  interrupted  her  son,  whose  love  for  his  mother 
was  the  noblest  trait  in  his  character. 

"No,  the  pain  is  all  a  thing  of  the  past,  if,  indeed, 
there  ever  was  any  connected  with  my  marriage  with 
your  father.  Wnen  the  conditions  of  the  will  we~e  first 
made  known  to  us,  neither  of  us  were  willing  to  carry 
them  out,  not  that  we  had  any  especial  dislike  to  each 
Other;  we  simply  did  not  seem  to  be  in  perfect  sympathy, 
we  had  no  real  affection  for  one  another,  and  on  that  ac 
count  we  both  shrank  from  assuming  the  intimate  rela 
tions  of  husband  and  wifa.  William  Mapleson  was  a 
handsome  and  noble  gentleman,  and  I  admired  and 
liked  him  in  a  cousinly  way.  His  own  feelings  were  sim 
ilar  to  mine,  so  you  perceive  it  was  not  easy  to  comply 
with  the  wishes  of  your  Uncle  Jabez.  The  property,  as 
you  perhaps  know,  was  divided  equally  between  us,  and 
Ve  werer  free  to  use  the  income  of  it  as  we  chose,  until  I 
should  be  twenty -five  years  of  age,  provided  neither  of  113 
married  any  one  else  before  that  time ;  in  that  case, 
whichever  of  us  violated  the  conditions  of  the  will  was  to 
forfeit  his  or  her  share,  and  it  was  to  go  to  the  other,  Avho 
was  then  free  to  marry,  and  would  have  the  whole  for 
tune.  If  both  of  us  remained  single  after  I  reached  the 
age  of  twenty-five,  than  all  was  to  go  to  Robert  Dale." 

"It  was  an  abominable  will!"  Everet  Mapleson  ex 
claimed,  indignantly. 

"Yes,  it  was,  and  it  made  me  very  antagonistic  at  first. 
I  was  extremely  high  spirited  as  a  girl,  and  I  resented  the 
presumption  of  any  one  choosing  my  husband  for  rne," 
Mrs.  Mapleson  replied,  a  flush  dyeing  her  whole  face  at 
the  memory  of  her  girlish  indignation. 

"Of  course,  any  one  would.  Besides  this,  Robert  Dalo 
had  plenty  of  money  of  his  own,  hadn't  he?" 

"Yes,  he  was  worth  a  great  deal.  He  was  a  bachelor 
and  a  sort  of  miser  and  hermit." 

"What  if  he  had  died  before  you  were  twenty -five?" 


110         A  LONG  AND  INTERESTING  CONVERSATION. 

"That  would  have  ended  all  our  difficulties — the  money 
woufr!  have  been  ours  without  restrictions." 

"What  finally  induced  you  to  change  your  mind  ?"  Ev- 
eret  asked,  searching  his  mother's  handsome  face  ear 
nestly. 

She  did  not  reply  for  a  moment,  and  seemed  to  be 
struggling  with  an  inward  emotion. 

"I  shall  have  to  confess,  Everet,  that  it.  was  the  love  of 
money,"  she  at  last  said,  with  a  sigh,  although  a  slight 
smile  played  over  her  brilliant  lips.  '  I  had  known  what 
poverty  was  as  a  girl,  and  I,  hated  it.  I  had  struggled 
during  my  youthtul  years  for  even  the  necessaries  of  life, 
for, "as  you  know,  my  father  was  poor  and  an  invalid. 
After  I  came  into  the  possession  of  my  share  of  Uncle  Ja- 
bez's  money  I  enjoyed  every  luxury  and  wras  enabled  to 
provide  all  the  family  with  comforts  such  as  they  had 
never  known  before.  Do  you  think  it  would  have  been 
easy  to  have  gone  back  to  the  hardships  of  my  early  life  ?" 

"I  suppose  it  would  not  have  been  easy." 

"Your  father  was  situated  somewhat  the  same.  He 
had  been  dependent  upon  Uncle  Jabez's  bounty  ever  since 
the  death  of  his  parents,  and,  although  he  was  as  indig 
nant  as  I,  at  first,  over  this  will,  and  vowed  he  would  not 
Submit  to  any  such  arbitrary  conditions,  yet.  after  years 
of  luxurious  living,  when  he  began  to  realize  what  it 
would  be  to  be  deprived  of  it,  he  came  to  me  and  asked  if 
I  was  willing  to  revoke  my  early  decision,  and  become  his 
wife." 

"But,  mother,  was  there  no  one  else  in  all  the  world 
whom  you  would  have  preferred  to  marry  ? — no  one 
whom  you  had  met  and  loved  ?  Was  there  no  romance  in 
either  of  your  lives  that  would  conflict  with  such  a  pro 
ceeding?"  Everet  anxiously  asked. 

"No,  there  wap  no  one  whom  I  loved  better — no  one 
•whom  I  would  have  been  as  willing,  even,  to  marry." 

"That  seems  very  strange  !  How  old  were  you  at  that 
time  !" 

"Twenty-four — it  was  my  last  year  of  grace,"  replied 
Mrs.  Mapleson,  with  a  little  laugh. 

"  Have  you  never  met  any  one  since  who  has  made  you 
regret  the  step  ?" 

"No,  Everet;  and  if  I  had,  I  had  too  much  respect  for 
myself  and  for  your  father  to  ever  have  yielded  to  any 
such  sentiment.  More  than  that,  I  have  become  deeply 
attached  to  my  husband,  and  oirr  life,  as  you  well  know, 
has  been  a  remarkably  peaceful  and  uncheckered  one." 


A  LQbQ  AND  INTERESTING  CONVERSATION.         Ill 

"And  father "  the  young  man  began,  and  then  hesi 
tated. 

"He  told  me  frankly  when  he  asked  me  to  marry  him, 
that  he  had  no  other  attachment,"  interposed  Mrs.  Maple- 
son  ;  "in  fact  we  mutually  confessed  that,  athough  we  did 
not  possess  any  rozrantic  love  for  each  other,  such  as 
lovers  usually  entertain,  we  had  none  for  any  one  else ; 
that  we  did  admire  and  esteem  each  other,  and  we  be 
lieved  that  a  marriage  would,  under  the  circumstances, 
be  best  for  us  both." 

"It  is  the  strangest  union  I  ever  heard  of,  and  I  believe 
it  was  a  very  dangerous  thing  to  do." 

"Dangerous?    Why?" 

u  You  might  have  met  some  one  later,  whom  you  would 
have  learned  to  love,  and  unhnppiness  must  have  result 
ed  from  it  to  all  parties." 

"That  was  hardly  probable,  for  we  had  both  been  much 
in  society  and  had  seen  a  great  deal  of  the  world.  At  all 
events  we  have  been  a  very  contented  couple.  Our  early 
admiration  and  simple  liking  have  ripened  into  a  deep 
and  lasting  affection,  and  we  have  been  as  quietly  happy 
as  most  married  people,  I  believe." 

The  young  man  regarded  his  mother  curiously.  It 
seemed  very  strange  to  him  that  such  a  beautiful  woman 
as  she  was  and  must  have  been  in  her  youth,  should  have 
missed  that  sweetest  of  all  experiences — youthful  loving 
and  being  loved. 

She  was  just  the  person,  he  thought,  to  have  inspired 
the  most  ardent  passion  in  the  heart  of  some  strong,  true- 
minded  man  ;  and  just  the  woaian  to  have  loved  such  a 
man  most  fervently  and  devotedly. 

He  almost  wondered  that  his  father  had  not  fallen  mad 
ly  in  love  with  her  at  the  very  outset,  and  yet  he  could 
understand  how  the  spirit  of  antagonism  had  been 
aroused  in  them,  from  the  fact  of  not  having  been  al- 
lo'.ved  to  choose  for  themselves  in  a  matter  so  vital  to 
their  interests  and  happiness. 

"You  say  that  this  cousin,  Robert  Dale,  was  an  old 
bachelor?"  ho  asked,  after  a  few  moments  of  thought. 

"Yes,  and  he  was  every  bib  as  eccentric  as  Uncle  Jabez 
himself." 

"Are  you  sure  that  he  never  married?  Somehow, 
what  you  have  toLi  me  has  created  a  suspicion  in  my 
mind  that  this  Geoffrey  Dale  Huntress,  after  all, 
may  bo  in  some  way  connected  with  these  Dales  ai; 
home." 


112         A  LONG  AND  INTERESTING  CONVERSATION. 

Mrs.  Mapleson  gave  vent  to  a  silvery  ripple  of  amuse 
ment  at  her  son's  question. 

"I  am  very  sure  that  Robert  Dale  was  never  married," 
she  said.  "  He  despised  all  women,  even  disliked  to  eat 
what  a  woman's  hands  hud  cooked." 

"How  old  was  he  when  he  died?" 

"Forty.  I  should  judge." 

"Do  you  imagine  that  he  could  have  had  a  secret  al 
liance  \\itli  any  one,  and  that  this  Geoffrey  Dale  is  a  de 
scendant  of  his?" 

"No,  indeed  !"  Mrs.  Mapleson  returned,  her  face  dim 
pling  all  over  at  this  suggestion.  ".If  you  could  have 
geen  him  3*ou  would  never  ask  such  a  question.  No 
woman  would  have  dared  approach  him ;  110  woman 
would  have  lived  with  such  a  creature,  or  as  he  lived. 
He  built  himself  a  small  stone  house  in  the  woods  a  few 
miles  from  Vue  de  1'Eau.  It  was  as  rude  as  it  could  be, 
and  furnished  with  only  what  was  actually  necessary, 
and  there  he  lived  a  kind  of  hermit's  life,  with  an  old  ne 
gro  servant,  who  was  cook,  housemaid,  and  everything 
else  you  ma}'  choose  to  call  him." 

"But  during  his  earlier  life  be  may  have  been  different 
—he  may  have  loved  some  one,  and  been  secretly  mar 
ried,  and  then  disappointed  in  some  way  in  his  hopes, 
which  might  have  embittered  him  and  made  him  the 
•woman-hater  he  was,"  responded  Everet,  thoughtfully. 

"No,  I  do  not  think  that  is  possible  ;  and  even  if  it  were, 
this  young  man  could  not  be  a  son  of  his  ;  he  is  not  old 
enough  ;  he  belongs  to  the  same  generation  as  yourself." 

"True.  T  did  not  think  of  that.  How  long  did  Robert 
Dale  live  after  you  were  married  ?" 

"Just  one  month." 

Everet  looked  up  quickly  into  his  mother's  face. 

"Before  your  twenty-fifth  birthday?" 

"Yes." 

"And  were  you  sorry  that  you  did  not  wait  a  little 
longer?  You  would  have  been  free  from  the  conditions 
of  that  will,  and  could  have  kept  your  money." 

"No,  Everet,  I  have  never  regretted  my  marriage," 
Mrs.  Mapleson  calmly  replied.  "I  think  I  have  been  far 
happier  than  I  should  have  been  had  I  remained  single." 

"What  became  of  Robert  Dale's  money?" 

"  That  has  been  a  mystery  to  everybody,  and  one  that 
has  remained  unsolved  to  this  day.  He  was  known  to 
have  given  twenty  thousand  dollars  to  a  blind  asylum  in 
Philadelphia  several  years  previous  to  his  death ;  but 


A  LONG  AND  INTERESTING  CONVERSATION.         113 

what  became  of  the  remainder  of  his  fortune,  which 
must  have  been  very  large,  has  been  a  question  that  has 
puzzled  ull  who  knew  him.  I  think,  however,  he  must 
have  given  away  large  sums  at  different  times,  and  it 
was  all  distributed  before  he  died,  for  no  papers  of  any 
kind  and  no  will  were  ever  found." 

"  Was  Miss  Annie  Dale  a  relative  of  this  eccentric  old 
bachelor?"  Everet  inquired. 

"  Yes  ;  she  was  his  niece,  his  own  brother's  child  ;  but 
he  never  had  anything  to  do  with  the  family.  There  was 
some  trouble  between  himself  and  his  brother  during 
their  youth,  and  he  never  forgot  or  forgave  the  grudge. 
Even  after  the  girl's  father  died,  he  refused  to  have  any 
thing  to  do  with  either  mother  or  daughter,  although  I 
have  heard  that  they  were  at  times  very  needy." 

"Did  you  ever  see  the  girl?" 

"No;  my  home,  as  you  know,  was  in  Richmond.  I 
was  not  married,  and  did  not  go  to  Vue  de  1'Eau  until 
some  three  years  or  more  after  she  disappeared." 

"  Do  you  know  the  name  of  the  family  to  whom  she 
went  as  governess?" 

uNo." 

Mrs.  Mapleson  seemed  to  grow  somewhat  weary  of  the 
conversation. 

"It  is  very  strange  what  became  of  her,"  her  son  mur 
mured,  reflectively.  "Do  you  imagine  there  was  any  foul 
play  about  her  disappearance  ?" 

"Oh,  no,  indeed.  She  probably  met  some  clever  young; 
man  who  fell  in  love  with  her  and  married  her.  I  do  not 
know  much  about  the  matter  anyway,  only  that  she  waa 
entirely  alone  in  the  world,  and  I  do  not  know  as  there 
was  anything  so  very  remarkable  about  her  going  off  and 
never  coming  back  again.  But,  mercy  !  Everet,  I  do  not 
care  to  sit  here  all  day  ani  talk  about  the  Dales,  oven  for 
the  sake  of  making  out  your  handsome  orator  to  belong 
to  them,  which  is  not  at  all  probable.  Come,  I  want  to 
look  about  a  little." 

Mrs.  Mapleson  arose  as  she  spoke,  thus  putting  an  end 
to  their  long  talk,  and  her  son  dutifully  attended  her 
wherever  she  wished  to  go;  but  he  become  more  and 
more  convinced  that  Annie  Dale,  who  had  so  mysterious 
ly  disappeared  many  years  ago,  and  Geoffrey  Dale 
Huntress  were  in  some  way  connected  with  each 
other. 

He  knew  that  there  was  some  Mapleson  blood  in  the 
Dale  veins,  although  it  was  a  good  way  back,  and  he  be- 


114    EVJSRET  MAPLESON  RETURNS  TO  VUE  DJS  L'SAU. 

lieved  that  accounted  for  Geoffrey's  singular  resemblance 
to  himself. 

"I'll  wager  that  there  is  some  story  of  shame  at  the 
bottom  of  Annie  Dale's  disappearance,"  he  thought; 
"and  if  I  can  ferret  it  out  and  fasten  it  upon  him,  Gladys 
Huntress  will  never  marry  him,  I'll  look  into  this  mat 
ter  as  soon  as  I  go  home." 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

EVERET  MAPLESON   RETURNS    TO  VUE  DE  L'EAU. 

Everet  Mapleson  conducted  his  mother  to  Sheffield 
Hall,  thence  to  the  Divinity  Collages,  the  Marquand 
Chapel  and  Library,  and  finally  to  the  Peabody  Museum. 

In  this  latter  place  they  lingered  for  some  time,  exam 
ining  various  objects  of  interest,  Mrs.  Mapleson  appear 
ing  to  be  greatly  attracted  by  the  valuable  collection  of 
curiosities  on  exhibition  there. 

While  they  were  standing  before  a  cabinet  of  curious 
stones,  one  of  Everet's  classmates  came  to  him  and  drew 
him  aside  for  a  moment  of  private  conversation. 

He  then  turned  to  his  mother  and  exciised  himself,  say 
ing  that  he  was  wanted  elsewhere  upon  a  matter  of  class 
business,  but  would  shortly  return  to  her. 

"Very  well,"  she  replied.  "I  will  look  about  by  my 
self  until  you  come  back,  and  you  will  find  me  here." 

She  wandered  leisurely  from  case  to  case,  looking  over 
their  contents,  until  suddenly  her  attention  was  attracted 
by  a  peculiarly  pleasant  voice,  and,  glancing  up,  she  saw 
her  pon's  "double"  standing  near  her,  with  a  beautiful 
girl  leaning  upon  his  arm. 

She  knew  that  it  was  Geoffrey  Huntress  from  some  tri- 
flins:  difference  in  his  dress,  although,  even  to  her  keen 
mother's  eye,  it  was  almost  impossible  to  otherwise  dis 
tinguish  him  from  her  son. 

But  after  a  passing  glance  at  him,  her  attention  was 
riveted  upon  the  exquisitely  beautiful  girl  at  his  side, 
whose  face  was  all  aglow  with  health  and  happiness. 

"They  are  lovers,"  Mrs.  Mapleson  said  to  herself,  as  she 
saw  how  oblivious  they  were  of  all  save  each  other.  "I 
wonder  who  the  young  girl  is?  How  graceful  she  is  in 
every  movement !  how  animated  !  and  I  have  rarely  seen 
such  a  lovely  complexion,  or  such  beautiful,  expressive 
eyes  1" 


EVERET  WAPLESON  RETURNS  TO  VUE  DE  VEAU.    115 

She  stood  beside  one  of  the  cabinets,  partially  shielded 
by  it,  and  watched  the  young  couple  all  the  time  they  re 
mained  in  the  room,  and  \vould  gladly  have  followed 
them  as  they  passed  on  to  another,  so  interested  did  she 
become  in  them,  if  she  had  not  promised  that  she  would 
remain  where  she  was  until  Everet  returned. 

When  at  length  he  did  come  back  to  her,  his  face  was 
pale  and  lowerng.  He  had  passed  Gladys  and  Geoffrey 
on  his  way,  and  the  sight  of  them  together  had  wrought 
him  up  to  the  highest  pitch  of  passion  and  suffer 
ing. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  Everet  ?"  his  mother  asked.  "  Are 
you  in  trouble?" 

"No,"  he  answered,  briefly,  and  then  added:  "Have 
you  seen  enough  here?" 

"Yes,  I  have  been  ready  to  go  for  some  time;  I  have 
only  been  waiting  for  you.  I  have  been  quite  interested 
in  a  young  couple  who  have  just  gone  out — your  'double,' 
as  you  call  him,  and  a  lovely  young  girl.  Perhaps  you 
met  fhem." 

"Yes,  I  passed  them  as  I  came  in." 

"Who  is  she?" 

"She  is  the  daughter  of  the  man  who  adopted  him; 
her  name  is  Gladys  Huntress." 

"Gladys?  What  an  appropriate  name.  She  is  a  veri 
table  sunbeam.  Do  you  know  her?" 

"Yes ;  I  have  met  her  a  great  many  times  in  New  York 
society,"  the  youne  man  returned,  but  with  a  face  so 
pale  and  pained  that  his  mother  could  not  fail  to  notice  it. 

"Everet,  T  believe  that  you  have  fallen  in  love  with 
her,  yourself !"  she  said,  in  a  startled  tone. 

"It  would  not  be  a  very  difficult  thing  for  any  man  to 
do,  would  it?"  he  asked,  trying  to  smile,  yet  with  a  ring 
of  pain  in  his  voice. 

"Is  the  family  a  good  one?" 

"They  stand  well ;  they  are  received  in  the  best  society 
in  New  York,  and  I  hive  been  told  that  Mr.  Huntress  is 
a  wealthy  man." 

"Well,  he  has  a  charming  daughter,  anyway.  I'd  like 
you  to  win  a  pretty  girl  like  that  for  a  wife,  Everet,"  said 
Mrs.  Manleson,  wistfully. 

"I  assure  you  it  would  give  me  a  great  deal  of  pleasure 
to  gratify  you,  ma  chere,"  he  responded,  his  lips  curling 
with  a  bitter  smile,  as  he  thought  of  how  he  had  tried 
and  failed  ;  then  he  abruptly  changed  the  subject.  "But; 
time  is  flying,  and  if  \ve  are  to  be  in  New  York  to-night, 


116    EVEEET  MAPLESON  RETURNS  TO  VUE  DE  L'EAU. 

we  must  bo  thinking  about   trains,  while   I   have   some 
packing  to  attend  to  yet." 

Mrs.  Mapleson  signified  her  readiness  to  go,  and  they 
passed  out  of  the  museum  and  repaired  to  Everet's 
rooms. 

That  evening  they  Avere  en  route  to  the  great  metropo 
lis,  whence  they  were  to  go  to  Newport. 

Mrs.  Mapleson  had  arranged  to  spend  the  greater  por 
tion  of  the  season  at  this  fashionable  resort,  where  she 
expected  to  meet  some  friends,  who  were  also  coming 
from  the  South 

But  Everet  had  other  plans  for  himself. 

He  attended  his  mother  to  Newport,  saw  her  comforta 
bly  and  pleasantly  settled  there,  and  then  informed  her 
that  he  was  going  homo  to  Virginia. 

She  was  amazed  at  this  information,  and  protested  in 
dignantly  against  his  departure. 

"Why,  I  am  a  total  stranger  here,  Everet,"  she  said, 
"and  it  is  too  bad  of  you  to  desert  me  in  this  unceremoni 
ous  fashion.'' 

"But  the  Ainslies  and  Worthingtons  will  he  here  in  a 
day  or  two,  and  then  you  will  have  plenty  of  company," 
he  told  her. 

"  But  I  want  you  for  an  escort.  I  do  not  like  to  be  left 
alone." 

"Then  I'll  try  and  persuade  father  to  con.e  on,  if  he  is 
at  home  when  I  reach  Vue  do  1'Eau,"  Everet  returned, 
but  without  relenting  in  the  least  from  his  purpose. 

"But  what  is  your  object?  It  seems  inexplicable  to 
me.  I  supposed,  of  course,  you  w«re  going  to  remain 
with  me,'1  his  mother  said,  searching  his  face  curiously, 
and  with  some  anxiety  as  well. 

"  I  have  an  object,  but " 

"But  you  do  not  wish  to  tell  me  what  it  is,"  she  inter 
posed.  "Everet,  you  shall!  I  suspect  it  is  some  love 
affair." 

He  colored  crimson,  and  then  was  enraged  at  himself 
for  doing  so. 

"Well,  and  what  if  it  is?"  he  demanded,  somewhat  de 
fiantly. 

"  Who  is  there  at  home  in  whom  you  are  so  deeply  in 
terested  ?" 

"No  one;  I  am  going  to  trace  out  that  Annie  Dnle's 
history,  if  you  must  know.  I'beliove  Geoffrey  Bale  Hun 
tress  is  in  some  way  connected  with  her,  and,"  he  hurst 
out  excitedly,  "I  am  going  to  know  1" 


JSVERET  MAPLESON  RETURNS  TO  VUS  DB  L'EAJT.    111 

"Nonsense!  What  good  will  ifc  do  you?  Everet,"  she 
added,  as  a  sudden  thought  came  to  her,  "you  are  in  love 
with  that  girl,  Gladys  Huntress,  and  you  are  jealous  of 
him. " 

u  Wt  11  ?" 

"You  have  conceived  the  idea  that  Annie  Dale  disap 
peared  because  of  some  wrong  that  she  had  done,  and 
that  this  Geoffrey  Huntress  may  be  her  child,  and  not  of 
honorable  birth.  You  believe,  if  you  can  prove  ttiis,  that 
Miss  Huntress  will  never  marry  him,  and  you  will  thetf 
be  able  to  win  her." 

Mrs.  Mapleson  had  said  this  looking:  sfraight  into  hei 
son's  eyes,  and  seeming  to  read  his  soul  like  an  oper 
book. 

"Mother,  your  penetration  is  something  remarkable.  J 
could  almost  believe  you  to  be  a  mind-reader,"  he  replied 
half  guiltily. 

Then,  after  a  moment  of  thought,  he  continued,  e* 
Citfdly  : 

"Yes,  I  may  as  well  confess  it — I  am  madly  in  lovd 
with  Gladys  Huntress,  and  have  been  for  more  than  9 
year.  I  have  vowed  that  I  will  win  her  if  it  can  be  ao 
complished,  even  though  I  know  that  she  loves  this  fel 
low,  who  has  been  nothing  but  a  stumbling-block  in  my 
path  since  the  day  T  first  met  him.  I  am  going  to  Rich 
mond,  as  you  surmise,  to  trace  Annie  Dale's  history  from 
the  time  of  her  disappearance,  and  I  fully  believe  that  1 
shall  discover  that  this  Geoffrey  Dale  is  her  son.  If  he  is 
a  child  of  shamer  I  do  not  believe  that  Gladys  Huntresi 
•will  marry  him,  and  T  may  yet  be  happy." 

Mrs.  Mapleson  looked  deeply  troubled  over  this  confes 
cion. 

"Everet,"  she  said,  gravely,  "I  am  afraid  that  you  ar< 
building  upon  a  false  foundation,  and  your  hopes  will 
come  to  naught,.  If  this  srirl  truly  loves  that  young  man. 
and  he  is  worthy  of  her,  she  will  marry  him,  or  I  am  verj 
mu oh  mistaken  in  my  estimate  of  her  character." 

Everet  Mapleson's  brow  darkened. 

"I  am  going  home,  anyhow,"  he  said,  doggedly. 

"It  will  be  a  wild-goose  chase,  I  warn  you,"  returned 
his  mother. 

"I  cannot  help  it.  I  shall  go  mad  if  I  sit  idly  down, 
and  Gladys  is  lost  to  me  forever,"  he  retorted,  with  quiv 
ering  lips. 

Mrs.  Mapleson  seemed  very  unhappy. 

She  loved  her  son  ns  she  loved  no  one  else  in  the  world, 


118    EVERET  MAPLESON  RETURNS  TO   VUE  DE  L'EA  CT. 

and  she  could  not  bear  to  think  that  he  had  learned  to 
love  unwisely,  and  was  risking  his  future  happiness  in 
pursuit  of  an  ignis  fatuus. 

She  did  not  believe  he  would  ever  win  Gladys  Hun 
tress.  The  young  girl's  face  had  haunted  her  ever  since 
she  had  seen  her  witn  her  lover,  in  the  museum  at  Yale, 
and  she  knew,  by  the  way  she  had  looked  up  into  Geof 
frey's  eyes,  that  she  loved  him  with  her  whole  soul,  and 
that  no  dishonor,  save  that  of  his  own  making,  would 
ever  alienate  her  fiom  him. 

"Oh,  Everet,  pray  give  up  this  foolish  infatuation,"  she 
pleaded,  laying  her  hand  beseechingly  on  his  arm. 

"Foolish  infatuation,  indeed  I"  he  retorted,  with  an 
angry  flush.  "What  can  you  know  about  it — you  who 
never  knew  what  it  was  to  love  a  man  as  I  love  this 
peerless  girl  ?" 

Mrs.  Mapleson  crimsoned  to  her  brow,  then  grew  white 
as  the  snowy  lace  about  her  neck  ;  her  lips  quivered  pain 
fully,  and  hot  tears  rushed  to  her  eyes. 

"Are  you  not  somewhat  harsh  in  your  judgment  of  me, 
Everet?  Surely,  whatever  else  you  may  say  of  me.  you 
cannot  accuse  me  of  lacking  in  affection  for  my  son,"  she 
said,  sadly  and  tremulously. 

"Forgive  me,  mother,"  he  pleaded,  conscience-smitten, 
"but,  indeed,  it  nearly  drives  me  distracted  to  think 
that  I  may  not  be  able  to  win  Gladys ;  while  he,  that 
beggar  without  even  a  name,  has  won  her  without  an 
effort." 

"Has  won?    Then  they  are  engaged  ?" 

"Yes." 

"What  folly,  Everet?  I  would  respect  myself  too  much 
to  cry  after  a  girl  who  was  already  pledged,"  said  Mrs. 
Mapleson,  scornfully,  and  with  flashing  eyes. 

His  face  flamed  angrily. 

"I  tell  you,  you  cannot  understand  !"  he  cried.  "At 
all  events,  whether  I  win  or  not,  I  will  do  my  utmost  to 
separate  them.  I  detest  him  so  thoroiiehly,  I  will  never 
allow  him  to  triumph  where  I  have  failed." 

He  stole  from  the  room  with  these  words,  and  that 
night  he  left  Newport  for  Vue  de  1'Eau,  where  he  arrived 
three  days  later,  and  found  his  father  at  home  keeping 
bachelors'  hall  in  fine  style,  with  half  a  dozen  servants  to 
attend  him.. 

Colonel  Mapleson  greeted  his  son  with  a  heartiness 
which  testified  to  the  deep  affection  which  he  bore  him, 
though  he  expressed  some  surprise  that  he  should  have 


EVEliET  MAPLESON  RETURNS  TO  VUE  DE  L'EA  U.    119 

returned  at  that  season,  when  he  might  have  been  enjoy 
ing  the  cool  breezes  of  Newport,  and  had  his  pick  of  the 
fashionable  belles  who  thronged  the  place. 

"  I  have  not  been  at  home  for  a  long  time,  you  know," 
Everet  responded,  carelessly,  "and  somehow  had  a  pecu 
liar  longing  to  get  back  to  the  old  place.  Mother  rebelled 
at  being  left,  but  I  promised  to  send  you  on  to  take  my 
place." 

Colonel  Mapleson  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

He  was  not  particularly  fond  of  gay  society,  and  was 
never  anxious  to  dance  attendance  upon  his  fashionable 
wife,  although  he  was  proud  of  her  beauty,  and  the  admi 
ration  and  attention  she  received  wherever  she  went. 

"I  have  not  been  in  Newport  for  a  good  many  years," 
he  remarked,  as  he  passed  his  coffee-cup  to  be  filled  for 
the  third  time;  for  they  were  at  breakfast. 

"Surely  ydu  would  enjoy  the  trip  then,"  Everet  re 
plied.  "Newport  has  changed  greatly;  it  has  become, 
literally,  an  island  of  palaces.  You  ought  to  run  up  there 
for  a  little  change  during  mother's  stay." 

"Well.  I'll  think  about  it;  but  you  will  be  lonely  if  I 
run  off  just  as  you  come  home." 

"Never  mind  me  ;  mother  needs  and  wants  you,  and  I 
have  been  in  so  much  excitement  of  late  that  I  shall  be 
glad  to  be  quiet  for  awhile,"  the  young  man  remarked, 
carelessly. 

This  was  such  a  strange  desire  on  the  part  of  one  who 
had  been  accustomed  to  frequent  all  the  gay  resorts  dur 
ing  the  summer  holida3rs,  while,  too,  he  was  looking  far 
from  well  or  happy,  that  Colonel  Mapleson  shot  a  search 
ing  glance  into  his  son's  face,  and  began  to  suspect  thnt 
he  had  been  disappointed  in  some  affair  of  the  heart,  and 
had  come  home  to  conceal  it. 

"That  is  a  new  freak,  isn't  it?"  he  asked,  quietly. 

"You  can  call  it  so  if  you  like  ;  but  I  have  been  working 
pretty  hard  this  last  year,  and  am  tired.  Besides,  I  have 
not  had  a  really  good  chance  to  fish,  hunt,  and  ride  since 
I  entered  Yale,  and  I  mean  to  improve  my  opportunity 
now  to  my  heart's  content.  By  the  way,"  he  continued, 
after  a  slight  pause,  "isn't  there  a  place  called  the  'Her< 
mitage'  somewhere  in  this  vicinity,  whore  a  relative  of 
ours,  who  was  a  sort  of  recluse,  used  to  live?  In  some  of 
my  roaminga  I  may  like  to  visit  it." 

"Yes  ;  Robert  Dale,  a  distant  cousin,  built  it  and  lived 
there  for  years.  I  suppose  your  mother  has  been  telling 
you  about  him  ;  she  always  invested  him  with  a  grout 


120    EVERET  MAPLESON  RETURNS  TO  VUE  DE  L'EAU. 

deal  of  romance,"  his  father  replied,  with  a  slight  smile 
of  amusement.  "He  was  a  queer  old  codger,  too,  and 
lived  a  regular  hermit's  life  for  nearly  a  quarter  of  a  cen 
tury.  The  house  is  still  standing,  about  ten  miles  from 
here,  in  a  lonely  spot  surrounded  by  a  dense  growth  of 
pines.  He  kept  one  servant — Uncle  Jake,  he  was  called 
— who  was  housekeeper  and  steward  all  in  one — cooking, 
washing,  and  ironing,  taking  care  of  their  one  horse  and 
cow,  and  the  chickens.  He  also  attended  to  all  the 
marketing  and  errands,  and  his  master  was  rarely 
seen." 

"How  did  Mr.  Dale  occupy  his  time?"  Everet  inquired. 

"With  reading  and  writing.  He  had  a  choice  library, 
the  only  luxury  of  which  he  was  guilty ;  and  he  left  piles 
of  manuscripts,  some  of  which  were  quite  valuable,  treat 
ing  chiefly  upon  geology  and  ornithology.  He  had  al 
ways  been  a  great  student  of  those  subjects.1 

"•What  became  of  his  library  ana  manuscripts?" 

"One  of  the  trustees  cf  Richmond  College  claimed  that 
they  had  been  promised  to  that  institution,  and  although 
there  was  no  writing  of  any  kind  found  after  his  death  to 
verify  that  claim,  the  books  and  papers  were  all  made 
over  to  the  college." 

"What  of  his  servant,  Uncle  Jake?" 

"He  died  only  a  few  mont-hs  after  his  master.  He 
lived  on  at  the  Hermitage  in  the  same  way,  refusing  to 
leave  the  place,  and  was  found  dead  in  his  bed,  one  day, 
by  some  sportsmen,  who  stopped  there  to  fill  their  can 
teens  with  water.  He  was  buried  there  in  the  woods, 
the  house  was  shut  up,  and  has  remained  so  ever  since." 

"This  Robert  Dale  was  a  relative  of  vours,  wasn't  he, 
father?" 

"Well,  yes,  I  suppose  he  was,  though  the  relationship 
is  very  distant.  He  was  own  cousin  to  my  Uncle  Jabez, 
who  was  my  father's  half-brother,  if  you  can  make  thai 
out."  said  Colonel  Mapleson,  laughing. 

"Humph!  There  was  another  family  of  Dales,  who 
lived  somewhere  in  this  region,  if  I  remember  right,  that 
is,  I  remember  hearing  something  about  them,5'  Everet 
remarked,  after  another  pause. 

Colonel  Mapleson  bent  a  look  of  questioning  surprise 
on  his  son. 

"It  appears  to  me  that  you  manifest  an  unusual  interest 
in  the  Dales  this  morning,"  Colonel  Mapleson  said. 
"What  has  aroused  it?  I  did  not  suppose  you  were  even 
aware  of  their  existence." 


&VERET  MAPLESON  RETDKN8  TO  VUE  DE  L'EAU.    121 

"Mother  related  something  of  their  history  to  me.  But 
you  have  not  answered  my  question." 

"Yes,  there  was  another  family  of  Dales;  at  least, 
there  was  a  widow,  and  her  daughter,  who  lived  in  a  cot 
tage  not  far  from  Vue  de  1'Eau,  a  good  many  years  ago. 
They  came  here  in  a  very  destitute  condition,  after  Mr. 
Henry  Dale's  death,  and  supported  themselves  by  teach 
ing  and  sewing." 

"And  yet  this  old  hermit,  Robert  Dale,  had  plenty,  and 
lei  them  toil  for  the  necessities  of  life,"  said  Everet,  in 
dignantly. 

"They  were  his  own  brother's  wife  and  child,  too; 
but —  "  began  Colonel  Mapleson,  musingly,  while  he 
seemed  to  bo  busy  with  some  memory  of  the  past. 

"Well,  mother  told  me  they  were  bitter  enemies. 
What  was  the  cause  of  it?"  asked  the  young  man, 
eagerly. 

"Robert  and  Henry  Dale  both  loved  the  same  woman 
when  they  were  young  men.  Henry  won  her,  and  Robert 
hated  him  ever  afterward  ;  that  is  the  secret  of  his  lead 
ing  such  a  singular  life,  I  suppose,"  explained  his  father. 

Everet  flushed. 

He  was  thinking  of  two  other  young  men  who  loved  the 
same  woman,  one  of  whom  hated  the  other  for  having 
won,  where  he  had  failed. 

"What  became  of  the  two  women?1'  he  asked,  wishing 
to  hear  his  father's  version  of  Annie  Dale's  disappear 
ance. 

"Mrs.  Dale  died  many  years  ago,  and  the  daughter,  I 
believe,  went  somewhere  to  be  a  governess.  But,  gra 
cious  !  Everet,  it  is  nearly  ten  o'clock  !"  suddenly  inter 
jected  Colonel  Mapleson,  looking  at  his  watch  in  sur 
prise,  "and  I  promised  to  meet  Major  Winterton  in  town, 
at  a  quarter  before  eleven,  to  look  at  his  sorrel  mare.  I 
am  talking  of  buying  her  for  a  saddle  horse.  I  must  be 
off  at  once.  Will  you  come  with  me?" 

"Thanks,  no.  I  think  I  will  lounge  about  home  for  to 
day,"  the  young  man  replied,  but  feeling  somewhat  dis 
appointed  at  having  their  conversation  so  abruptly  termi 
nated. 

Colonel  Mapleson  bade  his  son  good-morning,  and  hur 
ried  from  the  room  to  order  his  horse,  while  Everet  sak 
musing  upon  what  he  had  learned,  and  wondering*  what 
his  next  step  would  be  to  ascertain  what  Annie  Dale's 
fate  had  been,  after  going  to  Richmond  to  seek  her  for 
tune. 


122  A2f  INTJiiliJSSTIlW  D  WMLL1SG. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

AN  INTERESTING    DWELLING. 

Colonel  Mapleson  received  a  letter  from  his  wife,  a 
day  or  two  after  Everet 's  return  to  Vue  de  1'Eau  begging 
him  to  come  to  Newport  to  join  herself  and  friends. 

She  wrote  that  she  was  an  odd  one  in  the  party,  and 
although  every  one  was  very  kind,  she  feit  rather  embar 
rassed  to  be  without  an  escort,  which  marred  her  enjoy 
ment  very  much  ;  if  he  could  not  come  she  should  return 
home. 

Everet  urged  his  father  to  go,  and  the  colonel,  feeling 
that  it  would  be  too  bad  to  have  his  wife's  holiday  spoiled, 
decided  that  he  would  gratify  her,  packed  his  portman 
teau,  and  started  off  at  once. 

Everet  accompanied  him  to  the  station,  and  gave  a 
sigh  of  relief  as  he  watched  out  of  sight  the  train  that 
bore  his  father  northward,  for  he  felt  that  he  could  now 
pursue  the  investigations  he  was  contemplating  indepen 
dently,  and  without  fear  of  criticism. 

With  his  thoughts  full  of  this  purpose,  he  turned  his 
horse's  head  again  toward  home,  but  on  his  way  he  made 
a  detour,  taking  a  road  which  would  lead  him  around  by 
the  old  mill. 

He  had  not  traversed  this  way  since  he  was  a  boy,  and 
had  almost  forgotten  how  the  place  looked,  though  he 
used  to  row  upon  the  pond  and  play  about  the  dilapidated 
wheel,  which  once  had  turned  the  mill,  while  he  had  fol 
lowed  the  stream  that  fed  it  for  miles,  in  search  of  the 
pretty  speckled  trout  that  lay  hidden  in  their  dark 
haunts  beneath  the  tangled  roots  of  the  overhanging 
trees. 

The  day  was  excessively  warm,  but  the  trees  with  their 
luxuriant  foliage  made  a  perfect  arch  above  his  head,  arid 
afforded  a  delightful  shade,  through  which  the  sunlight 
only  came  in  checkered  gleams,  making  quaint  shadows 
on  the  grass-grown  path  beneath.  Hundreds  of  birds  on 
every  hand  made  the  woods  ring  with  their  sweet  melo 
dies  ;  myriads  of  flies  buzzed  lazily  about ;  tha  beetles 
hummed  among  the  bushes,  and  gayly  painted  butterflies 
fluttered  among  the  many-failed  flowers  that  grew  by  ths 


AN  INTERESTING  DWLLLlbb.  i_3 

wayside.  Now  and  then  a  squirrel  would  spring  out, 
chattering  from  some  gnarled  and  moss-grown  trunk, 
and  dart  across  the  path  or  along  the  zigzag  Virginia 
fence  on  either  hand,  while  occasionally  a  nut-brown  par 
tridge,  startled  from  its  covert,  darted  deeper  into  the 
forest,  followed  by  its  timid  and  clamorous  mate. 

It  was  a  perfect  summer  day,  and  remote  from  the  busy 
haunts  of  men,  with  th6  tender  blue  of  the  sky  above, 
and  the  waves  of  golden  ligi't,  that  streamed  softly  on 
him  between  the  interlacing  branches  over  his  head,  Ev- 
eret  thoroughly  enjoyed  his  solitrry  ride,  and  the  lazy, 
peaceful  life  of  bird  and  insect  all  about  him. 

By  and  by  he  heard  the  rushing  of  the  brook  that  fed 
the  pond  farther  on,  and  presently  he  came  to  the  rhal- 
low  ford  where,  as  a  boy,  he  had  often  played  and  sailed 
his  miniature  boats. 

He  rode  his  horse  into  the  middle  of  the  stream,  where 
he  gave  hi  K  the  bridle,  and  let  him  drink  his  fill,  while 
he  absently  watched  the  ripples  and  eddies  which  he 
made  with  every  swallow. 

Then  he  passed  on,  and  coming  up  on  the  opposite 
bank,  he  saw  not  far  distant  the  smooth,  glassy  pond, 
and  the  old  mill  still  standing  on  its  margin. 

It  was  an  ancient  and  dilapidated  building,  black  from 
age  and  neglect,  but  picturesque  withal,  for  it  was  almost 
covered  with  a  luxuriant  growth  of  glossy,  dark-green 
woodbine,  intermingled  with  the  deadly  nightshade, 
whose  bright  purple  blossoms  made  spots  of  rich  color 
here  and  there  among  the  foliage. 

Passing  this,  he  came  to  the  miller's  house,  which  was 
also  empty  and  falling  to  decay,  while  still  farther  on  he 
came  upon  a  small  cottage  fairly  embowered  in  vines, 
and  brilliant  with  great  clusters  of  the  scarlet  trumpet- 
honeysuckle  and  pin  pie  wisteria. 

This  also  appeared  to  be  deserted,  and  there  was  no  sign 
of  life  anywhere  about  it ;  still  it  was  not  dilapidated  like 
the  other  buildings  which  he  had  passed,  and  it  looked  aa 
if,  from  time  to  time,  some  careful  hand  had  trained  and 
primed  the  vines,  and  kept  the  place  from  falling  to  ruin. 
It  had  originally  been  painted  white,  with  green 
blinds,  and  a  neat  fence  surrounded  the  spacious  garden  ; 
but  time  and  the  elements  had  robbed  it  of  its  once  spot 
less  coat,  and  but  for  the  vines  it  would  have  looked 
naked  and  forlorn. 

Everet  rode  up  to  the  hitching-post,  dismounted  and 
tied  his  horse  to  it,  unfastened  the  low  gate  and  walked 


124  AN  INTERESTING  DWELLING. 

up  the  grass-grown  path  to  the  broad  veranda  that  ran 
entirely  around  the  house. 

Every  window  was  curtained,  and  every  curtain  was 
down,  and  the  front  door  was  securely  fastened. 

The  young  man  stood  irresolute  a  moment  as  he  ob 
served  this. 

"It  cannot  be  that  any  one  lives  here,"  he  muttered  ;  "I 
am  quite  sure  that  this  must  be  the  Dale  cottage,  and  yet 
it  looks  as  if  it  were  inhabited." 

He  walked  slowly  around  the  veranda,  trying  to  peer 
in  at  the  side  of  the  curtains  as  he  passed  the  windows, 
but  not  a  glimpse  of  the  interior  could  he  obtain. 

There  was  another  door  at  the  back  of  the  house. 

He  tried  this  also,  but  it  was  evidently  bolted  on  the 
inside,  for  he  could  hear  the  bolt  rattle  in  its  socket. 

He  shook  it  gently  back  and  forth  a  few  times,  in  an 
impatient  way,  for  he  was  very  anxious  to  know  what 
was  behind  all  those  closely  drawn  curtains,  when,  to  his 
surprise,  the  door  suddenly  yielded  and  opened. 

The  iron  had  rattled  from  its  place. 

Stepping  within,  he  found  himself  in  what  appeared  to 
be  a  kitchen,  for  there  was  a  cooking  stove  under  the 
mantel;  a  dresser  filled  with  dishes  stood  on  the  east 
side,  and  there  was  a  small  table,  with  one  or  two  chairs 
opposite. 

There  was  a  door  on  his  left. 

Crossing  the  floor,  which  was  covered  with  dust,  and 
showed  the  print  of  every  step,  he  passed  into  a  small 
bedroom. 

A  faded  carpet  lay  upon  the  floor.  A  bed,  covered  with 
a  canopy  of  musquito  netting,  which  once  had  been  blue, 
but  was  now  faded  and  discolored  with  age  and  dust, 
stood  in  one  corner. 

Pretty  lace  draperies  fell  over  the  window  shades,  and 
were  looped  back  with  broad  satin  ribbons,  which  were 
also  blue.  A  cherry  table  and  a  couple  of  wicker  chairs 
completed  the  furnishing  of  the  apartment. 

A  second  door  led  into  another  room  from  this.  This 
stood  open,  and,  passing  through,  Everet  found  himself 
in  what  must  have  been  the  parlor,  for  it  extended  the 
whole  width  of  the  house,  and  had  been  both  richly  and 
tastefully  furnished,  although,  of  course,  everything  was 
now  faded  and  covered  with  dust,  and  had  a  look  of  neg 
lect  that  was  forlorn  and  cheerless. 

There  were  pretty  easy-chairs  and  tempting  rockers 
scattered  about ;  a  luxurious  aofa  in  one  corner,  and  a 


AN  INTERESTING  DWELLING.  125 

handsome  table  in  the  center  of  tlie  floor,  covered  with  a 
richly  embroidered  cloth,  evidently  the  work  of  a  skillful 
pnir  of  hands,  and  the  young  man  wondered  if  Annie 
Dale  had  wrought  the  beautiful  thing.  There  was  a  small 
piano  between  the  two  front  windows,  a  book-case,  filled 
with  books  by  standard  authors,  in  a  corner,  and  at  one 
end  there  was  a  lovely  writing-desk,  containing  numer 
ous  drawers  and  pigeon-holes,  and  every  convenience  for 
writing.  A  small  work-basket,  on  an  elaborate  stnnd, 
stood  beside  a  pretty  rocker  by  one  of  the  low  front  win 
dows.  It  was  a  dainty  affair,  lined  with  crimson  satin 
and  garnished  with  bows  of  ribbon  to  match  ;  and  Everet 
Mapl^son  could  imagine  just  how  the  graceful  figure  of 
the  fair  girl  to  whom  it  had  belonged,  had  looked  an  she 
sat  beside  it,  intent  upon  some  delicate  bit  of  sewing  or 
embroidery. 

He  turned  again  to  the  writing-desk,  as  if  he  instinct 
ively  felt  that  this  was  more  likely  than  anything  else  to 
contain  soive  information  regarding  the  former  occupants 
of  the  pretty  house. 

It  was  not  locked. 

He  opened  it,  laying  the  cover  out  flat,  and  then  bogan 
pulling  out  the  drawers  and  peering  into  the  various 
pigeon-holes  and  compartments. 

They  were  all  empty — so  far  there  had  not  been  even  a 
ecra,p  of  paper  to  tell  who,  in  davs  gone  by,  had  made  tise 
of  the  convenient  and  elegant  affair — and  he  shut  them  up 
again  with  a  sigh  of  impatience  nnd  regret,  while  a  feel 
ing  of  gloom  began  to  oppress  him  ;  there  was  something 
very  dreary  in  this  house,  so  completely  furnished,  yet? 
so  silent  and  deserted. 

A  sensation  of  guilt,  too,  began  to  intrude  uncomfort* 
ably  upon  him.  It  almost,  seemed  as  if  the  former  occu 
pants  of  this  home,  although  perhaps  long  since  dead  and 
passod  beyond  all  things  earthly,  were  yet  spiritually 
present  at  that  moment,  and  were  viewing,  with  a  re 
proachful  eye,  this  wanton  invasion  of  the  place  that  had 
once  been  sacred  to  them. 

He  put  up  the  cover,  and  was  pushing  in  the  little 
side  rests  that  had  held  it,  when  a  scrap  of  paper,  wedged 
in  hesMe  one  of  thorn,  caught  his  eye. 

Something  very  like  an  electric  shock  ran  along  his 
nerves  at  this  discovery. 

He  tried  to  dislodge  the  paper,  but  it  was  very  firmly 
caught,  while  the  raprged  edges  did  not  protrude  suffi 
ciently  to  allow  him  to  grasp  it  with  his  fingers. 


126  AN  INTERESTING  D  WELLING. 

He  drew  forth  his  knife,  and,  working  very  carefully, 
finally  succeeded  in  detaching  it  from  its  position. 

Upoji  examining  it  he  found  it  to  be  a  portion  of  a  letter 
that  had  probably  been  caught  some  time,  when  the  slide 
was  being  pushed  in,  and  the  other  part  had  been  hastily 
torn  away,  doubtless  by  some  one  trying  to  remove  it 
from  the  crevice. 

He  smoothed  it  out  with  an  eager,  trembling  hand, 
while  his  face  grew  white  from  the  excitement  of  the  mo 
ment. 

"Can  it  be  possible  that  I  have  found  a  clew  at  last?"  he 
muttered,  in  a  repressed  tone.  "I  am  afraid  it  will  prove 
but  a  faint  one,  but  it  may  be  something  to  begin  upon." 

The  following  is  what  he  read  from  that  torn  sheet  of 
paper,  Avhich  had  been  torn  lengthwise  in  a  very  irregular 
manner  : 


AN 

regret  that  I  have 
your  mother.     Of  cotir 
you  alone,  and  that  the 
for  life  only  must  now  cea 
nnnrovided  for.     My  poor  lit 
nothing  to  comfort  yon,  for  I  kno 
cold  words  are  at  snch  a  ti 
heart  is  with  yon.     I  sorrow  with 
sihle  I  would  come  to  yon 
yon  in  this  sad  hour.     T?nt 
favor  of  yon,  Annie.     We  hav 
life,  and  surely  yon  will 
I  want,  yon  to  remain  in 
yonr  home  for  the  future 
past.     It  is  yonrs  without 

"Yon  mnst  not.  however,  stay  there 
not  be  safe,  and  I  want  you  to 
panion  ;  some  one  older  tha 
be  a  sort  of  protector  to  von. 
expense,  Annie,  for  yon  know 
I  have  a.  right  to  care  for  you 
Inclosed  yon  will  find  che 
yonr  present  necessities,  and 
will  make  some  perm  an 
for  yon.     Write  me  at  once 
anxions  until  I  hear  from 

"Ever  y 

Such  was  the  fragment  which  Everet  Mapleson  found, 
and  he  read  't  over  severa.1  times,  his  fnoe  growing1 
whiter,  graver,  and  more  thoughtful  Avith  each  perusal. 

"At  last!"  he  cried,  striking  his  clenched  hand  upon 
the  desk  before  him.  "I  have  felt  it  coming,  and  now  I 


AN  INTERESTING  D  WELLING.  127 

will  follow  it  up.  I  will  leave  no  stone  unturned  until  T 
get  to  the  bottom  of  the  whole  matter.  How  tenderl> 
affectionate  this  letter  must  have  been,"  he  continued, 
with  curling  lips.  "  He  sorrows  with  her.  and  would  have 
come  to  her  'had  it  been  possible'.  He  evidently  wanted 
her  to  remain  here  after  her  mother  died  until  he  could 
come.  Meantime  he  ad  vises  a  companion  and  pi-otector, 
and  does  not  wish  her  to  'mind  the  expense,'  because  he 
has  a  '  right  to  care'  for  her,  and  incloses  a  check  as  sub 
stantial  evidence  of  the  fact. 

"Why  didn't  she  stay  here,  I  wonder?"  he  pursued, 
musingly.  "  Why  did  she  go  to  Richmond  to  look  for  a 
situation  as  governess,  or  was  that  only  a  blind  to  cover 
her  flight — to  deceive  him.  There  is  a  mystery  about  it. 
Can  it  be  possible " 

He  sprang  to  his  feet  with  the  sentence  unfinished  on 
his  lips,  and  began  pacing  the  floor  with  a  clouded  brow, 
and  his  mouth  drawn  into  a  stern,  resolute  line. 

"She  is  dead,  though,  if  she  was  Geoffrey  Dale  Hun 
tress'  mother — and  I'm  as  certain  of  that  as  that  I  am  the 
heir  of  Vue  de  1'Eau — for  that  woman,  Margery,  said  that 
be  could  not  realize  his  loss  when  she  died.  But  who 
was  his  father? — why  was  he  named  Geoffrey  Dale?  by 
whom  and  why  was  he  abandoned  in  the  streets  of  New 
York?  There  is  some  dark  secret  connected  with  Annie 
Dale's  life  and  her  disappearance  from  Richmond,  and  I 
shall  never  rest  until  I  know  th6  whole  story  from  begin 
ning  to  end." 

He  continued  his  pacings  and  mutterinsrs  for  a  long 
while,  growing  more  and  more  excited  over  the  matter. 
His  face  wore  a  dark  and  troubled  look  as  evf  r  nnd  anon 
he  raised  that  scran  of  paper  which  he  still  held  in  his 
hand  and  scanned  those  disjointed  lines. 

At  last  he  folded  it  very  carefully  and  put  it  safely 
away  in  his  wallet. 

"It  may  come  handy  some  day  even  if  the  other  half  is 
wanting,"  he  said,  an  evil  smile  curling  his  lips. 

Then  he  set  about  finishing  the  exploration  of  the  little 
cottage. 

There  was  a  little  hall  leading  from  one  end  of  the  par 
lor  and  a  flight  of  stairs  conducted  to  the  second  story. 

Ascending  these  Evoret  found  two  comfortably  fur 
nished  chambers  above,  one  of  which  had  evidently  been 
usorl  for  a  servant's  room. 

Retracing  his  steps  he  came  to  the  front  door,  which  he 
found  fastened  with  a  spring  lock.  He  then  went  back  to 


138  AN  OCTOGENARIAN  INTERVIEWED. 

the  kitchen,  where  he  securely  bolted  the  door,  after 
•which  he  passed  out  the  front  way,  the  lock  springing 
into  place  with  a  sharp  snap  after  him,  as  if  in  vigorous 
protest  at  his  intrusion  upon  the  mysteries  which  it  had 
guarded  for  so  many  years. 

Passing  out  of  the  little  gate,  he  fastened  it  after  him, 
then  mounted  his  horse  and  rode  slowly  and  thoughtfully 
back  to  Vue  de  1'Eau. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

AN   OCTOGENARIAN  INTERVIEWED. 

The  following  morning,  bright  and  early,  Everet  Maple- 
eon  was  en  route  to  Richmond. 

His  object  was  to  visit  an  old  lady  who  resided  there, 
and  who  knew  all  about  the  Maple-sons  for  the  last  three 
generations,  for  he  believed  she  would  be  able  to  throw 
some  light  on  Annie  Dale's  history. 

She  resided  in  a  quiet,  old-fashioned  street,  and  her 
family  consisted  of  one  servant,  her  cat,  dog,  canary  and 
parrot. 

Everet  found  her  in  her  dining-room,  surrounded  by 
her  pets,  and  looking  as  contented  and  benignant  as  if  she 
had  been  in  the  midst  of  as  many  children. 

"Aha!"  she  exclaimed,  looking  at  his  card  as  Everet 
followed  the  servant  into  the  room,  "you  must  be  the  son 
of  William  Mapleson  ;  he  married  Estelle  Everet,  and  I 
Bee  they  have  combined  the  two  names  :  quite  a  good  idea, 
young  man,  and  not  a  badly  sounding  title,  either.  And 
how  is  my  friend,  the  colonel,  your  handsome  lady 
mother,  too? — at  least  she  was  handsome  the  last  time  I 
saw  her." 

The  young  man  informed  the  loquacious  old  lady  that 
both  his  parents  were  well,  and  were  at  present  enjoying 
the  gayeties  of  a  season  at  Newport. 

"And  they've  left  you  at  home  to  look  after  the  planta 
tion,  eh  ?  That  is  rather  reversing  the  order  of  things, 
isn't  it?  Most  young  people  think  they  must  have  the 
good  times,  while  the  old  people  stay  at  home." 

"No,  I  have  not  been  left ;  it  was  my  own  preference  to 
remain,"  Everet  told  her.  "You  know,  Miss  Southern,  I 
have  not  been  at  Vue  de  1'Eau  very  much  during  the  last 
four  years,  and  so  it  is  quite  a  relief  to  be  at  home  for 
a  little  while.71 

"Vue  de  1'Eau  is  a  grand   place,  Mr.  Mapleson,  and  I 


AN  OCTOGENARIAN  INTERVIEWED.  128 

think  anybody  ought  to  be  happy  there,"  the  old  lady  ob 
served  ;  "and  I'm  sure,"  she  added,  with  an  appreciative 
glance,  "it  was  very  good  of  you  to  call  upon  your  father's 
old  friend.  I  do  not  see  many  young  people  nowadays.'* 

Everet  colored  slightly  at  this  reference  to  his  visit, 
and  it  made  it  a  trifle  awkward  for  him,  since  he  did  not 
like  to  tell  her  outright,  after  that,  that  a  selfish  interest 
alone  had  brougtit  him  there. 

He  bowed,  and  murmured  something  about  being  par 
tial  to  elderly  people ;  and  then,  after  chatting  a  while 
longer  upon  indifferent  topics,  he  asked  her,  casually,  if 
she  had  known  the  Dales,  with  whom  the  Maplesons  were 
distantly  connected. 

il  Bless  your  heart !  yes  ;  I  knew  them  as  well  as  I  knevr 
my  own  brothers  and  sisters,"  replied  Miss  Southern,  her 
eyes  lighting  with  interest.  "  I  suppose  you  are  more  par 
ticularly  interested  in  Robert  Dale,  who  was  to  have  had 
the  whole  of  the  Mapleson  fortune  if  your  father  and 
mother  had  not  married  according  to  the  conditions  of  Ja- 
bez  Mapleson's  will." 

"Well,  yes.  I  am  interested  in  him;  but  he  had  a 
brother  named  Henry,  hadn't  he?"  Everet  asked. 

"Yes;  Robert  and  Henry  Dale  were  brothers,  and  were 
left  orphans  when  they  were  about  twelve  and  fourteen 
years  of  age.  After  completing  their  education,  they  both 
started  in  life  with  a  comfortable  fortune,  for  their  father 
died  a  rich  man.  Henry  was  all  business,  and  went  at 
once  to  speculating,  determined  to  increase  his  patrimo 
ny  ;  while  Robert,  who  was  a  great  student,  settled 
quietly  down  to  his  studies,  content  with  what  he  had. 
But,  unfortunately,  both  fell  in  love  with  the  same  girl, 
Nannie  Davenport,  and  she  was  about  the  sweetest  girl 
that  I  ever  knew.  She,  however,  preferred  the  gay, 
dashing  Henry,  and  Robert  never  forgave  neither  his 
brother  for  being  his  successful  rival,  nor  her  for  marry 
ing  him.  It  just  ruined  his  life,  for  he  withdrew  f*om  nil 
society,  made  a  recluse  of  himself,  in  fact,  and  finally 
ended  his  days  in  a  little  stone  hut  not  far  from  your 
own  house,  young  gentleman." 

11  Yes,  so  I  have  been  told,"  Everet  replied,  "find  I  in 
tend  to  visit  the  place  some  day  soon.  But  what  became 
of  the  other  brother?" 

"Poor  Henry  was  unfortunate  in  his  speculations;  he 
lost  every  dollar  of  his  money,  and  though  he  struggled 
along  for  a  few  years,  he  finally  died,  broken-hearted, 
leaving  his  wife  and  child  almost  destitute." 


130  AN  OOTOUSNARIAN  INTERVIEWED. 

"This  child  was  a  daughter,  I  have  heard,  and  there  is 
some  romantic  story  connected  with  her,  I  believe,"  in- 
torp>,sed  Everet,  \vho  could  hardly  restrain  his  impa 
tience  to  learn  Annie  Dale's  history. 

"  Yes,  yes ;  1  will  tell  you  all  about  it,  only  you  must 
let  me  do  it  in  my  own  way,  if  you  please,"  returned  Miss 
Southern,  who,  like  many  other  garrulous  old  ladies,  did 
not  enjoy  being  interrupted. 

"  Nannie  Davenport,"  she  resumed,  "  was,  as  I  have  told 
you,  a  very  beautiful  girl,  and  her  little  daughter  inherit 
ed  all  her  mother's  loveliness,  which  was  of  the  golden- 
haired,  rose-and-liiy  type,  and  much  of  her  father's  en 
ergy  and  love  of  business.  Jabez  Mapleson,  whose  moth 
er  was  a  sinter  of  Annie  Dale's  father,  supported  them 
after  Henry  Dale's  death  until  the  girl  was  fifteen  years 
of  age,  when  she  insisted  that  she  and  her  mother  were 
able  to  take  care  of  themselves,  and  they  opened  a  small 
private  school,  to  which  some  of  the  wealthiest  families 
of  the  section  where  they  lived  sent  their  children.  In 
this  way  the  mother  and  daughter  managed  to  get  a  com 
fortable  and  independent  living.  But  this  proud  spirit  on 
their  part  offended  old  Jabez  Mapleson,  who  never  left 
them  .anything  at  his  death,  but  made  that  queer  will, 
which  you,  of  course,  know  all  about." 

"Yes,"  Everet  returned,  with  a  slight  smile. 
"It  was  the  most  absurd  ana  arbitrary  affair  that  lever 
heard  of,"  Miss  Southern  asserted,  indignantly,  "to  divide 
his  great  fortune  between  those  two  young  people — one 
the  son  of  a  sister,  the  other  a  daughter  of  a  brother- 
giving  them  a  taste  of  the  luxuries  and  pleasures  of  life 
for  several  years,  and  then  dooming  them  to  poverty 
again  if  they  refused  to  marry  each  other  at  the  end  of  a 
given  time.  It  all  turned  out  well  enough,  though,  as  it 
happened,  only  I  always  thought  it  a  little  queer  that 
your  lather  and  mother  fought  shy  of  each  other  until  al 
most  the  last  moment,  when  they  concluded  to  comply 
with  the  terms  of  the  will.  They  were  wonderfully  suited 
to  each  other ;  there  was  no  question  about  that ;  and  they 
made  a  handsome,  noble  couple  ;  but  I've  always  won 
dered  if  there  was  really  any  true  love  between  them,  o? 
whether  they  had  become  so  accustomed  to  the  life  of 
luxury  they  were  living  that  they  could  not  give  it  up, 
and  so  married  to  secure  the  fortune." 

This  last,  seemed  to  have  been  uttered  in  an  absent  way, 
as  if  the  old  lady  were  simply  musing  upon  what  had  al 
ways  been  a  mysterious  question  with  her. 


AN  OCTOGENARIAN  INTERVIEWED-  131 

Everet  colored  resentfully  at  the  implied  reflection 
upon  the  lovo  of  his  parents  for  each  other  ;  but  he  saw 
that  she  had  spoken  thoughtlessly,  as  if  hardly  aware  of 
his  presence,  and,  respecting  the  infirmities  of  age,  ho 
concealed  his  feelings,  although  he  hastened  to  sec  her 
right  upon  the  matter. 

"My  mother  once  told  me,"  he  said,  a  trifle  coldly, 
"that  her  married  life  has  been  a  very  happy  one,  and 
that  there  was  no  one  else  whom  she  would  have  pre 
ferred  to  marry  at  the  time  she  was  united  to  my  father. 
There  was  something  rather  mysterious  about  the  dis 
posal  of  Rob  rt  Dale's  fortune,  was  there  not?"  Everet 
asiced,  anxious  to  change  the  rather  delicate  subject,  and 
determined  to  find  out  all  that  he  could  about  the  Dale 
family. 

"You  are  right,"  replied  the  old  lady;  "and  it  is  a 
matter  that  has  never  been  cleared  up  to  this  day,  and  is 
never  likely  to  be,  according  to  my  way  of  thinking.  Pie 
died  very  suddenly,  and  that  may  perhaps  account  for  it, 
for  I  believe  the  old  miser  hid  his  money,  and  it  has  been 
rusting  itself  away  all  these  years  and  doing  nobody  any 
good.  lie  gave  quite  a  sum  to  some  charitable  associa 
tion,  I've  been  told  ;  but  that  could  not  have  been  a  tithe 
of  his  possessions,  for,  the  way  he  lived,  his  income  must 
have  accumulated  very  rapidly." 

Everet  Mapleson  looked  interested  at  this  view  of  the 
mystery.  He  had  never  thought  of  such  an  explanation. 

"  I  say  it  is  a  shame  !"  the  old  lady  continued,  excitedly, 
"that  his  brother's  widow  and  child  could  not  have  had 
the  benefit  of  some  of  his  money.  Charity  begins  at  home, 
and  he  had  no  business  to  give  oven  a  blind  asylum  hia 
thousands  and  hide  away  the  rest,  while  they  were  toil 
ing:  early  and  late  for  the  bare  necessities  of  life." 

Everet  thought  of  the  richly  a,nd  daintily  furnished 
rooms  that  he  had  visited  only  the  previous  day,  and 
came  to  the  conclusion  that  perhaps  Miss  Southern  did 
not  know  just  how  they  had  lived. 

"Did  they  own  the  cottage  where  they  resided?"  ho 
asked. 

"Bless  you,  no !  Old  Jabez  Mapleson  owned  that; 
didn't  you  know  it?  And  it  fell  to  your  father,  with  the 
rest  of  the  estate,  after  he  died." 

The  young  man  started  at  this  information. 

He  had  never  known  just  the  extent  of  his  father's  es 
tate. 

He  had  been  at   the  North   in  different  schools   during 


132  AN  OCTOUENAEIAN  INTERVIEWED. 

the  last  eight  years,  and  previous  to  that  he  never  had 
felt  interested  enough  in  the  properly  to  ask  any  informa 
tion  about  tne  boundaries  of  Vue  de  1'Eau. 

Colonel  Mapleson,  in  speaking  of  the  Dales,  had  said 
they  lived  not  tar  from  tnat  place  ;  but  now  it  appeared 
that  his  estate  included  the  little  vine-clad  cottage,  the 
old  mill,  and  other  buildings  in  that  vicinity. 

Did  the  furniture  oil  tnat  little  house  also  belong  to  him, 
or  had  he  simply  let  it  remain  there  after  the  mysterous 
disappearance  of  Annie  Dale,  thinking,  perhaps  tnat  some 
time  she  might  return  to  the  home  she  had  so  strangely 
left?  Or  had  the  writer  of  that  letter,,  a  portion  of  which 
he  had  found,  had  something  to  do  with  the  rich  garnish- 
ings  of  that  cozy  home? 

The  mystery  seemed  to  be  thickening,  rather  than  be 
ing  explained. 

"  I  have  been  at  home  so  little  that  I  have  had  no  op 
portunity  to  learn  much  about  the  estate,"  Everet  re 
marked,  in  reply  to  Miss  -Southern's  look  of  astonish 
ment.  "  But  do  you  know  how  old  this  girl  was  when  her 
mother  died?" 

"Annie  was  in  her  eighteenth  year.  Poor  child!  She 
seemed  to  be  entirely  alone  in  the  world  then,  and  came 
here,  to  Richmond,  to  try  to  earn  her  living.  She  made 
me  a  call,  while  looking  about  for  a  nituation,  and  I  pitied 
her  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart,"  said  the  old  lady, 
with  a  sigh. 

"  Where  did  she  make  her  home  while  searching  for  a 
place?"  Everct  inquired. 

"With  her  old  nurse- -a  free  colored  woman,  who  was 
very  fond  of  her.  Mauma  Gregory  was  her  name.  I 
begged  her  to  come  to  me,  and  would  have  been  glad  of 
her  company,  for  her  mother  and  I  were  great  friends 
during  our  youth  ;  but  she  feared  to  hurt  her  nurse's  feel 
ings,  while  she  hoped  to  obtain  a  situation  in  a  few  days, 
and  thought  it  best  not  to  change  her  address." 

"  Is  that  old  nurse  living  now  ?"  Everet  eagerly  asked. 

"I  am  sure  I  cannot  tell.  If  she  is,  she  must  be  very 
aged,  and  I  think  it  doubtful.'' 

11  Where  did  she  live  at  that  time?" 

Miss  Southern  told  him  the  street  and  number,  direct 
ing  him,  as  well  as  she  could,  how  to  find  it. 

"I  never  saw  the  girl  again,"  she  went  on,  sadly.  "Af 
ter  her  call  I  did  not  hear  anything  of  her,  and,  feeling 
interested  to  know  how  she  had  succeeded,  I  went  one 
day  to  see  Maurua  Gregory,  and  make  inquiries  about  her. 


AN  OCTOGENARIAN  INTERVIEWED.  Ic3 

The  woman  was  herself  in  deep  trouble  on  account  of 
her.  She  told  me  that  Annie  had  remained  with  h?r 
about  two  weeks,  and  during  that  time  she  received  t\vo 
applications  to  go  into  families  as  a  governess,  and  about 
the  same  tiine  Mie  also  received  a  leiter  that  appeared  to 
agitate  her  considerably.  A  day  or  two  later,  she  told 
Minima  Gregory  that  she  was  going  to  a  situation  out  of 
town — she  would  not  tell  where,  but  said  she  would  write 
about  it  as  soon  as  she  was  settled  in  it.  But  she  never 
did — at  least,  her  nurse  had  not  heard  anything  from  her 
at  the  end  of  another  year,  and  in  great  grief  told  me  she 
was  sure  that  Miss  Annie  must  be  dead,  or  she  would 
never  have  treated  her  so." 

"It  seems  vt-ry  strange  that  a  young  and  beautiful  girl 
should  drop  suddenly  out  of  the  world  like  that,  and  no 
one  ever  learn  her  fate,"  Everet  remarked,  though tiuliy. 

•'It  does  indeed,"  said  Miss  Southern,  "and  yet  the 
had  no  near  friends  to  interest  themselves  for  her ;  there 
appeared  to  be  no  one,  save  her  nurse  and  myself,  who 
had  any  special  interest  in  her,  and  what  could  two  weak 
women  do,  with  no  tangible  facts  to  work  upon?  I  have 
a  theory  of  my  own  about  the  matter,  however,  though  it 
may  be  far  from  the  truth." 

u  What  is  it?  Tell  me,  please,''  the  young  man  urged, 
eagerly. 

The  old  lady  regarded  him  curiously. 

"  You  seem  strangely  interested  in  a  generation  of  the 
past,"  she  dryly  observed. 

"I  am,"  he  acknowledged,  frankly.  "I  have  only 
very  recently  learned  this  story  about  the  Dales,  and 
their  connection  with  my  ow  family.  Yesterday,  while 
I  was  out  riding,  I  came  to  a  small  cottage  which  attracted 
my  attention.  I  dismounted  and  went  to  peer  in  nt  one 
of  the  windows,  but  every  curtain  was  down.  I  finally 
forced  an  entrance  by  a  back  door,  and  found  the  house 
furnished  just  as  its  occupants  had  left  it  many  years 
ago.  I  was  convinced  from  what  I  had  already  heard  that 
it  was  the  Dale  cottage." 

"Was  it  a  small  white  cottage,  standing  near  an  old 
mill,  and  not  far  from  the  pond?  "Was  there  a  low  orna 
mental  fence  around  the  yard,  ai  <i  a  veranda  entirely  sur 
rounding  the  house?"  Miss  Southern  asked. 

"Yes;  you  havo  described  it  exactly." 

"And  is  it  still  furnished  ?" 

"1  should  judge  it  remains  just  as  they  left  it." 

"That  is  strange,  for  it  is  more  than  twenty  years  since 


134  AN  OCTOGENARIAN  INTERVIEWED. 

Annie  Dale  left  it  to  come  to  Richmond,"  mused  Miss 
Southern.  "  Tt  was  very  good  of  Colonel  Mapleson  to 
leave  it.  so,"  she  added  ;  "perhaps  he  disliked  to  disturb 
anything,  hoping  that  the  wanderer  might  some  time  re 
turn." 

Everet  did  not  say  what  he  thought,  but  his  face  wore 
a  troubled  look. 

"You  were  going  to  tell  me  what  your  theory  is  regard 
ing  Miss  Dale's  disappearance,"  he  remarked. 

"I  think  there  was  a  lover  in  the  case,"  she  replied.  "I 
believe  she  must  have  made  the  acquaintance  of  some 
young  man,  who  was  enamored  of  her  beauty,  and  who, 
having  won  her  heart,  enticed  her  to  go  away  with  him  to 
some  place,  promising  to  marry  her,  and  who  then — be 
trayed  her  confidence." 

"Then  you  think  she  was  never  married?"  said  the 
young  man,  flushing  with  excitement  to  find  how  like  her 
theory  his  own  was. 

"If  she  had  been  a  lawful  wife  I  think  she  would  have 
written  of  the  fact  to  h^r  nurse  ;  for  she  promised  to  let 
Mauma  Gregory  hear  from  her  when  she  was  settled,  and 
there  has  never  come  a  word  from  her." 

"She  may  have  written  and  the  letter  miscarried," 
Everet  suggested. 

"In  that  case  she  would  have  written  again,  for 
Mauma  could  write,  and  if  Annie  did  not  get  an  answer 
to  her  letter  she  would  have  sought  a  reason.  Besides, 
what  you  have  told  me  confirms  my  suspicion  ;  if  she  had 
been  a  happy  wife,  with  a  home  of  her  own,  she  surely 
would  have  wanted  the  articles  of  furniture  belonging  to 
her,  and  which  must  have  beon  sacred  to  her  because  of 
their  associations.  No  ;  I  firmly  believe  that  the  poor  girl 
met  with  some  crushing  sorrow  and  lins  either  died  of  a 
broken  heart,  or  is  still  hiding  herself  and  her  misery 
from  all  who  ever  knew  hor." 

Miss  Southern  wiped  a  tear  of  regret  from  her  eyes  as 
she  concluded. 

Everet  Mapleson  felt  that  be  could  have  settled  the  fate 
of  the  unfortunate  girl  for  her  by  telling  what  Margery, 
the  flower  vender,  had  told  him  ;  but  he  did  not  care  to 
say  anything  about  it  then,  and  believing  be  had 
learned  all  that  Miss  Southern  could  tell  him,  he  changed 
the  sob./ecfr,  and  after  a  few  minutes  took  bis  leave,  prom 
ising  to  come  again  to  see  his  father's  old  friend  upon  an 
other  visit  to  Richmond. 

He   went   immediately   to   seek   Mauma   Gregory,   bu* 


A  E  EM  A  EKABLE  DISCO  VER  T.  135 

learned  that  the  faithful  old  nurse  had  died  nearly  two 
years  previous. 

He  was  deeply  disappointed  in  having  his  way  thus 
hedged  about,  for  he  was  puzzled  to  knew  what  step  to 
take  next. 

He  regretted  more  than  ever  that  he  had  neglected  to 
question  Margery  at  the  time  of  his  encounter  v,rith  her 
in  New  York.  Had  he  done  so,  he  felt  as  if  he  might 
have  now  held  the  key  to  this  perplexing  riddle. 

He  turned  his  face  homeward,  more  miserable  and 
troubled  over  the  matter  than  he  would  have  cared  to 
own. 


CHAPTER    XXII. 

A  REMARKABLE   DISCOVERY 

"I  shall  hunt  up  that  old  hermit's  retreat  k^day," 
Everet  Mapleson  said,  as  he  awoke  the  next  morning. 
"  I  want  to  see  for  myself  just  how  and  where  he  lived.  I 
begin  to  find  these  researches  into  the  past  somewhat  in 
teresting,  if  perplexing.  I  enjoy  real  romances,  but  not 
unfinished  ones.  I  like  to  be  able  to  complete  a  story, 
and  have  all  the  characters  definitely  disposed  of.  It  be 
gins  to  look,  though,  as  if  Miss  Annie  Dale  was  a  lost 
heroine,  and  like  the  celebrated  'Lost  Chord,'  never 
likely  to  be  recovered  or  accounted  for. 

"So  this  queer  old  character,  Robert  Dale,  was  her 
mother's  lover?"  he  resumed,  as  he  began  to  dress.  "How 
strangely  things  get  mixed  in  this  world.  Why  can't 
people  always  love  the  right  ones,  and  escape  all  this 
jealousy  and  disappointment?  Nannie  Davenport's  story 
is  likelv  to  be  repeated  in  this  generation.  Oh,  Gladys, 
why  couldn't  you  have  loved  me  instead  of  that  mysteri 
ous  personage  who  seems  to  have  won  your  favor?  I 
could  have  given  you  an  honorable  name,  wealth,  and  a 
proiH  position  in  life,  while  he  has  literally  nothing  to 
offer  you.  But,"  his  face  assuming  a  stony  expression, 
"I  will  not  give  you  up  even  now  !  I  will  move  mountains 
to  nrcomplish  my  purpose,  and  you  shall  yet  be  Gladys 
Mapleson  !" 

Aft.pr  breakfasting,  the  young  man  ordered  his  horse  to 
bo  s.nddjprl.  and.  after  inquiring  of  HIP  eroom  the  way  to 
the  "Dale  Hermitage,"  as  the  rpelnspv  ^ornp  was  called, 
he  mounted  and  rode  away  toward  the  fo.'est,  in  the  depths 


185  A  REMARKABLE  DISCOVERT. 

of  which  Robert  Dale  had  spent  BO  many  years  of  his 
life. 

It  was  a  long  ride,  though  a  delightful  one,  through 
the  spicy  pine  woods  and  over  the  grass-grown  cart-path, 
where  only  mule  teams  passed  now  and  then  in  hauling 
great  logs  to  market. 

It  Avas  nearly  noon  when  Everet  came  in  sight  of  the 
Hermitage,  and  he  found  it  not  such  a  rude  affair,  after 
all.  as  he  had  pictured  in  his  imagination  from  the  de 
scriptions  he  had  heard  of  ft. 

He  saw  that  it  must  have  been  quite  an  expensive 
structure,  for  it  was  built  mostly  of  stone,  while  every 
bit  of  the  work  had  been  done  in  the  most  thorough  man 
ner. 

It  made  quite  a  pretty  picture,  standing  there  beneath 
two  huge  pine  trees,  and  with  the  glossy  ivy  climbing 
thickly  all  about  its  rough  walls,  hanging  in  graceful  fes 
toons  from  the  overlapping  eaves  and  the  mullioned  win 
dows. 

It  was  composed  of  but  one  story,  and  a  couple  of* 
granite  steps  led  up  to  the  one  door,  which  was  set  in  the 
center  of  the  structure.  This  was  not  locked,  and  enter 
ing,  Everet  found  himself  in  a  narrow  hall,  Avhich  divided 
the  building  through  the  middle,  and  was  lighted  by  a 
window  at  the  other  end. 

On  each  side  there  were  two  rooms. 

On  the  rieht  was  what  appeared  to  have  been  the  cook 
ing  and  eating-room,  for  a  great  dresser  had  been  built 
upon  one  side  ;  a  wide  fire-place,  Avith  andirons  and  an 
old-fashioned  crane,  Avas  opposite  th«  entrance,  and  a 
small  table,  with  two  chairs,  stood  in  the  center  of  the 
room. 

Back  of  this  there  was  a  smaller  apartment,  probably 
the  servants'  quarters,  and  on  the  opposite  side  of  the 
hall  there  Avere  two  similar  rooms. 

In  the  front  one  there  stood  a  plain  but  solid  desk,  and 
a  large  arm-chair  before  it.  Near  it  was  an  iron  safe,  but 
the  door  was  swung  partly  open,  and  EA-eret  could  see 
that  it  was  empty,  and  he  thought  that  it  had  probably 
been  used  as  a  receptacle  for  the  valuable  manuscript  of 
which  his  father  ha,d  spoken.  A  couple  of  book-cases, 
reaching  from  floor  to  ceiling,  had  been  built  into  the  Avail 
upon  two  sides  of  the  room,  like  the  dresser  in  the  kitchen. 
Back  of  tbip  there  was  another  bedroom,  its  only  furni 
ture  consiph'ng  of  a  single  bedstead  of  iron. 

The   walls   were  all  of  rough  stone,  the  crevices  being 


A  EEMARKABLE  DISCOVERY.  187 

filled  in  with  cement,  while  all  the  floors  were  of  red 
brick,  laid  in  zigzag  pattern. 

The  furniture  was  of  soli 3  oak,  but  plain  to  clumsiness, 
and  everything  about  the  place  betrayed  how  utterly  in 
different  to  the  comforts  and  elegancies  of  life  the  owner 
had  been,  and  Everet  could  not  help  contrasting  it  with 
the  luxuries  that  were  stored  away  in  that  little  cottage 
which  he  had  visited  only  a  few  days  previous. 

The  book-cases  alone  possessed  any  claim  to  elegance. 
They  were  also  of  oak,  like  the  other  articles  of  furniture, 
but  somewhat  ornamented,  and  glazed  with  heavy  plate 
glass,  showing  how  tenderly  the  recluse  had  guarded  the 
books  that  he  had  loved  so  well. 

There  was  a  spacious  fire-place  at  one  end  of  the  room, 
in  which  there  were  a  pair  of  rude  andirons,  and  a  clumsy 
pair  of  tongs,  with  a  shovel,  stood  beside  it. 

The  apartment  was  light  and  pleasant,  for  there  were 
four  windows  in  it — two  on  the  front,  which  looked  toward 
the  east,  and  two  more  on  the  south. 

It  was  just  the  nook  for  a  student  and  a  recluse,  and, 
in  snite  of  its  isolation  from  all  the  world,  there  was  a 
aort  of  charm  about  the  place,  even  to  the  gay  and 
eociety-loving  Everet  Mapleson. 

At  the  back  of  the  house  there  was  a  small  wooden 
structure,  now  fast  fallng  to  decay,  and  a  yard  fenced  in, 
where,  evidently,  Robert  Dale  had  kept  his  one  horse, 
cow,  and  hens,  while  beyond  this  there  was  a  patch  of 
cleared  ground,  which,  doubtless,  had  once  been  a  kitchen 
garden. 

Everet  sat  down  in  the  great  chair  before  the  desk, 
after  completing  his  round  of  investigation,  and  fell  to 
musing  upon  what  he  had  seen. 

He  triod  to  imagine  what  the  appearance  of  Robert 
Dale  had  been — what  his  temperament  and  disposition. 

Bitter  and  vindictive  he  must  have  been,  to  have  so 
hated  his  brother  that  he  allowed  him  to  die  in  poverty, 
and  his  family  to  struggle  on  for  years  afterward  for  a 
mere  pittance,  while  he  had  thousands  lying  idle  and 
useless ;  purly  and  churlish,  too,  he  surmised,  to  have 
biddon  himself  away  from  all  society  there  in  the  depths 
of  the  forest. 

The  place  seemed  invested  with  an  unearthly  mystery, 
and  it  was  not  Rtmnge,  taking  into  consideration  the  life 
its  owner  had  livod.  nnd  th?  dpnth  he  had  died,  leaving 
no  trace  behind  him  of  the  vast  possessions  that  had  been 
bis. 


138  A'  KEMRABlE  DISCO  VERY. 

"If  he  did  not  dispose  of  his  wealth  while  he  lived,  and 
made  no  will  before  his  death  ;  if  there  is  money  con 
cealed  anywhere  and  should  ever  be  found,  it  would  be 
long  to  Annie  Dale's  heirs,  for  she  was  his  nearest  kin," 
Everet  Mapleson  murmured,  as  he  leaned  both  arms  on 
the  desk  before  him,  and  looked  thoughtfully  out  of  one 
of  the  south  windows. 

"If  Geoffrey  Dale  Huntress  proves  to  be  her  son,  as  I 
am  more  and  more  inclined  to  believe,  he  will  be  the  heir 
to  Robert  Dale's  missing  thousands.  This  place  would 
be  his,  anyhow,  if  the  relationship  could  be  proved.  I 
wonder  how  much  land  belongs  with  it !  Zounds  !  I  wish 
I  knew  what  has  become  of  the  old  chap's  money  !  The 
more  I  seek  to  penetrate  this  mystery,  the  more  tantaliz 
ing  it  becomes  ;  but  I  swear  that  I  will  never  rest  until  I 
get  to  the  bottom  of  it !" 

He  struck  the  desk  a  terrific  blow  with  his  fist,  in  the 
heat  of  his  excitement,  as  he  uttered  this  vow;  and  the 
weight  and  force  of  it  jarred  it  so  that  something  was 
displaced,  and  clattered  noisily  to  the  floor. 

The  young  man  leaned  forward  to  see  what  he  had 
done,  and  found  that  a  panel,  about  twelve  inches  long 
and  six  wide,  had  fallen  from  one  end  of  the  desk, 

"Well,  I  should  think  it  was  about  time  for  this  truck 
to  be  falling  to  pieces,  solid  as  it  is,"  he  said,  as  he 
stooped  to  pick  it  up. 

Upon  examining  it,  he  found  that  there  were  some 
hinges  upon  one  end,  and  that  time  and  dampness  had 
caused  them  to  rust  until  they  had  fallen  apart,  while 
upon  the  opposite  end  there  was  a  socket  for  a  spring. 

"Aha!  a  secret  compartment !"  he  exclaimed,  his  face 
lighting  with  eagerness. 

Bending  to  inspect  the  place  from  which  the  panel  had 
fallen,  he  saw  that  his  surmise  was  correct. 

There  was  a  cavity,  about  four  inches  deep,  in  the  end 
of  the  desk,  just  under  the  molding  that  ran  around  the 
top  of  it,  with  the  other  portions  of  the  hinges  attached 
to  the  top,  and  a  small  spring  at  the  bottom. 

"Ye  gods  !  there  is  something  in  it,  too  !"  he  cried,  in  a 
startled  voice,  and  his  hand  actually  trembled  with  ner 
vous  excitement  as  he  drew  forth  a  small  black  morocco 
case,  and  a  package  of  papers,  tied  with  red  tape,  which 
lay  underneath. 

The  case  was  an  old-fashioned  miniature  case,  and 
doubtless  contained  a  likeness. 

Everet  instinctively  shrank  from  opening  it   for  a   mo- 


A  REMARKABLE  DISCOVERY.  139 

raent,  for  he  felt  as  if  he  were  trenching  upon  some  secret 
almost  too  sacred  to  be  revealed. 

"  There  must  have  been  a  soft  spot  somewhere  in  the 
old  fellow's  heart,  to  have  kept  a  thing  like  this,"  he  mut 
tered,  turning  it  over  and  over  in  his  hands. 

"But, 'to -the  victor  belong  the  spoils;'!  have  made 
this  discovery  after  everybody  else  has  failed,  and  so  I 
have  a  right  to  know  what  I  have  found.'' 

He  touched  the  spring  and  the  case  flew  open,  revealing 
the  likeness  of  a  young  girl  of  exquisite  beauty. 

"Nannie  Davenport !  I'll  wager  a  ten-dollar  note,'1  he 
ejaculated,  in  a  breathless  tone. 

The  face  was  a  pure  oval,  crowned  with  a  wealth  of 
hair  that  was  twined  in  a  massive  coronet  about  the 
small,  beautifully-shaped  head.  The  eyes,  Everet  felt 
sure,  must  have  been  a  deep,  dark  blue,  and  their  ex 
pression  was  lovely  beyond  description  ;  the  nose  was 
small  and  straight,  with  delicate  nostrils,  the  mouth  full 
and  sweet,  with  a  slight  smile  just  curving  the  tender 
lips. 

"What  a  bewitching  little  fairy  she  must  have  been. 
No  wonder  Robert  Dale  buried  himself  here  and  ate  his 
heart  out  with  grief  arid  jealousy  at  losing  her.  Poor  old 
man  !  I  reckon  I  know  something  of  your  feelings,  but  I 
Bhall  never  sit  tamely  down  and  bear  it.  I'll  conquer  or 
die  in  the  struggle,"  he  concluded,  between  his  set  teeth. 
The?i  he  grew  deadly  pale.  i 

"Perhaps  he  didn't  give  up  either  until  after  she  was 
married,"  he  said,  "and  then  he  couldn't  help  himself. 
Bah  !  Gladys  Huntress  shall  never  marry  Geoffrey  Dale  !" 
He  shook  himself  impatiently,  as  if  these  reflections 
were  too  painful  and  disagreeable  to  dwell  upon,  closed 
the  miniature  with  a  snap,  and  turned  his  attention  to  the 
package  that  he  had  also  found. 

He  carefully  untied  the  tape  that  bound  it,  removed 
the  wrapper,  and  several  certificates,  representing  a  large 
amount  of  bank  stock,  fell  out. 

Examining  them  closely,  Everet  found  that  they  were 
dated  several  years  previous  to  his  own  birth,  and  all 
were  made  out  in  the  name  of  Annie  Dale. 

"Good  gracious!  she  was  his  heiress  !"  he  exclaimed, 
in  amazement.  "The  old  chap  had  to  give  in  at  last.  He 
loved  that  woman  to  the  death,  though  he  was  too  proud 
to  show  it  by  helping  her  while  she  lived,  and  so  left  his 
money  to  her  child. 
"Let  me  see,"  he  went  on;  "these  are  dated  just  about 


HO  EVtiRET  MAKES  A  NEW  ACQUAINT  AX  VE. 

the  time  the  girl's  mother  died,  I  should  judge,  or  a  little 
before  ;  so  it  is  evident  he  did  not  mean  sue  should  have 
anything  until  he  was  gone.  How  strange  !  these  papers 
have  lain  here  all  these  years  and  no  one  the  wiser  fur  it, 
while,  of  course,  the  stock  has  been  accumulating  ail  tnat 
time.  It  is  remarkable  that  tne  directors  of  the  banks 
represented  have  not  taken  measures  to  find  the  holder 
of  the  certificates.  Possibly  they  have,  and  failed  to  do 
so.  I  wonder  father  has  not  been  applied  to;  but,  then, 
Eobert  Dale  was  such  a  secretive  character,  he  may 
never  have  revealed  his  residence,  and  it  would  have 
been  a  very  easy  matter  to  give  orders  to  let  the  stocJ£ 
accumulate  until  called  for." 

Ho  fell  to  musing  again  over  his  wonderful  discovery, 
until  all  at  once  he  gave  a  violent  start,  and  a  vivid  flush 
mounted  to  his  brow. 

"Blast  it !"  he  muttered,  "if  my  theory  is  correct  all 
this  money  belongs  to  Geoffrey  Dale,  What  in  thunder- 
am  I  going  to  do  about  it,  anyway  ?" 


JH AFTER  XXIII. 

EVERET  MAKES  A  NEW  ACQUAINTANCE. 

Evei'et  Mapleson  spent  the  next  week  mostly  in  hunt 
ing  and  fishing,  occupj'ing,  however,  a  portion  of  one  day 
in  looking  over  the  Hermitage  again,  although  without 
the  slightest  return  for  his  labor  in  finding  anything  new. 
,  At  the  end  of  that  time  he  began  to  grow  very  restless, 
and  a  fooling  of  depression  and  loneliness  took  possession 
of  him. 

A  few  days  more  of  the  same  kind  of  life  and  he  de 
clared  he  could  stand  it  no  longer. 

Still,  he  could  not  make  up  his  mind  what  he  really 
wanted  to  do,  and  was  miserable  and  discontented. 

He  would  have  been  glad  to  go  to  Brooklyn,  ascertain 
where  Gladys  had  gono  for  the  summer,  and  then  follow. 

But  he  reasoned  that  Geoffrey  would  be  with  her  this 
year,  and  knowing  it  would  be  simply  maddening  to  see 
them  together,  he  felt  it  was  best  that  he  should  keep 
away. 

But  something  he  must  do  to  kill  time  and  amuse  him 
self  ;  he  had  an  unaccountable  distaste  for  gay  society, 
and  yet  longed  for  some  excitement. 


r  MAKES  A  mw  ACVAnrTAXcx.        HI 


"I  believe  I  will  take  a  Western  trip,"  he  suddenly  said, 
one  -muming.  alter  liavmg  read  in  his  paper  an  interest 
ing'  account  ot  a  certain  route  taken  by  a  party  of 
travelers  going  to  California  and  the  Yosemite  Valley. 

Acting  upon  tne  impulse  of  the  moment,  he  packed 
his  portmanteau,  dashed  off  a  few  lines  to  his  mother  in 
forming  her  of  his  project,  and  was  westward  bound  be 
fore  noon. 

lie  readied  Chicago  the  second  morning  after  starting, 
and  took  a  room  at  tne  Palmer  Mouse,  to  rest  for  a  f  aw 
days  while  he  was  deciding  what  direction  he  would  take 
from  that  point. 

The  following  day,  after  a  good  night's  sleep  and  a  fine 
breakfast,  he  strolled  into  the  smoking-room  with  a 
morning  paper  to  idle  away  an  hour  or  so  and  read  the 
news. 

There  were  several  people  in  the  room,  but  he  paid  no 
attention  to  them  more  than  to  cast  a  sweeping  glance 
around  ;  then,  seating  himself  by  a  window,  he  lighted  a 
cigar  and  was  soon  buried  in  the  contents  of  his  paper. 

He  looked  through  one  half  of  it,  and  then  laid  it  aside, 
taking  up  the  other,  when  a  deep,  gruff  voice  just  behind 
him  remarked  : 

"  I  say,  stranger,  could  you  spare  a  part  of  that  there 
paper?  I've  read  yesterday's  Inter-Ocean  about  through, 
and  would  like  something  a  trifle  fresher." 

Everet  turned  to  see  who  was  addressing  him,  and 
found  a  man,  every  hit  as  rough  looking  as  his  voice  had 
sounded,  sitting  near  him. 

He  was  evidently  a  niinar  or  ranger,  but  had  an  honest, 
open  face  which  at  once  attracted  the  young  Southerner. 

He  passed  him  that  portion  of  his  paper  which  he  had 
read,  receiving  his  brief  thanks  with  a  courteous  bow, 
and  then  resumed  his  interrupted  reading. 

He  sat  there  for  perhaps  an  hour  longer,  until  he  grew 
tired  of  keeping  still,  and  was  contemplating  going  out 
for  a  stroll,  when  the  man  addressed  him  again  : 

"I  take  it  you're  a  stranger  in  these  parts,"  he  re 
marked,  with  a  keen,  comprehensive  glance  over  the 
young  man. 

"  Yes,  I  am  from  the  South,"  Everet  replied,  politely. 

"Travelin'  for  pleasure?" 

"Y-e-s—  partly!" 

"Any  special  route  laid  out?" 

"No;  I  thought  I'd  like  to  eee  something  of  the  far 
West.  I  think  I  shall  visit  the  principal  cities  on  my 


112  E  VERET  MAKES  A  NEW  A  C  Q  UAINTANCK 

way,  and  the  chief  points,  of  interest,  and  perhaps  take  a 
look  at  some  of  uie  mines ;  I've  always  had  something  of 
a  curiosity  regarding  mining." 

"Have  you  now  tf"  asked  tne  man  with  delighted  em 
phasis,  his  face  briglitening  with  pleasure.  " Perhaps  I 
can  be  ot  use  to  you  in  that  line  then,  for  I've  been  a 
miner  all  my  life  and  know  all  the  ins  and  outs  about  as 
•well  as  any  man  living.  I'll  be  glad  to  give  you  any 
points  ubouc  the  business." 

"Thank  you,"  Everet  returned,  looking*  interested. 
"What  mines  have  you  been  connected  with?" 

"I've  been  in  Nevada,  Colorado,  New  Mexico,  and  Cali 
fornia,"  answered  the  man,  with  an  air  of  pride. 

"Indeed,  you  have  surely  seen  a  good  deal  of  that  kind 
of  life,"  remarked  Everet,  smiling.  "  When  were  you  in 
NewMfcxico?  I  know  a  man  who  once  owned  stock  in 
some  mines  there." 

"I  went  to  New  Mexico  in  18 — ,"  replied  the  stranger, 
in  answer  to  Everet's  question,  "and  did  tip-top  for  ten 
years,  and  after  that  I  tried  Nevada.  What  was  your 
friend's  name,  sir?" 

"  Mapleson." 

"Mapleson?"  repeated  the  miner,  reflectively.  "I  don't 
think  I  ever  heard  the  name  before,  leastwise  not  in  the 
diggings.  What  mine  did  he  work?" 

"He  had  some  shares  in  the  Moreno  mines  on  the  east 
side  of  the  Rocky  Mountains." 

"Wall,  1  wasn't  located  in  the  Moreno  mines  myself. 
I  was  rather  up  among  the  mountains,  though  I've  been 
there  ;  but  I  never  met  a  man  by  the  name  of  Mapleson  ; 
though  there's  nothing  strange  about  that,  where  so 
many  people  own  shares.  I  worked  for  a  man  named 
Dale " 

"Dale  !"  interrupted  Everet,  with  a  sudden  shock. 

"Yes,  and  a  fine  man  he  was — handsome  chap,  too;  al 
together  too  much  of  a  fine  gentleman  to  be  roughing  it  as 
a  miner,  I  used  to  think. '; 

"Where  did  he  come  from?"  the  young  man  inquired, 
trying  to  repress  the  eagerness  that  possessed  him. 

"I  couldn't  tell  you.  I  was  in  Santa  Fe  one  day  look 
ing  for  a  job  and  he  was  looking  for  a  man,  to  sort  of 
superintend  a  claim.  We  took  to  each  other,  struck  a 
bargain  on  the  spot,  and  I  went  back  to  his  diggings 
Ttfith  him  that  very  night.  He  couldn't  or  wouldn't  wait 
till  the  next  day,  though  I'd  been  glad  to,  and  afterward 
I  found  out  the  reason — he  had  the  trappiest  little  wife  up 


ZVERET  MAKES  A  NEW  ACQUA1NTAXC&  143 

there  that  I  ever  set  eyes  on — a  sweet,  white-livered  little 
thing,  with  eyes  as  blue  as  the  sky  and  hair  as  bright  as 
the  gold  we  dug  out  of  the  bowels  of  the  earth." 

The  miner  was  waxing  eloquent  over  the  reminiscence. 

"  "Tisn't  often  that  a  man  cares  to  take  such  a  dainty 
piece  of  humanity  into  such  a  wild,  outlandish  place  as  a 
miner's  camp,  and  goodness  knows  that  it's  rare  enough 
for  a  rough  set  like  us  to  see  a  beautiful  woman, 
let  alone  having  her  right  among  us  all  the  time.  But 
there  wasn't  a  soul  that  wouldn't  have  risked  his  life  to 
defend  her  from  any  evil  or  danger,  for  she  always  f.iad  a 
kind  smile  and  a  gentle  word  for  the  worst  of  us." 

Everet  Mapleson  sat  suddenly  erect  and  looked  the 
astonishment  he  felt. 

His  face  had  grown  as  white  as  his  shirt  front,  while 
his  companion  was  speakingr  and  his  heart  was  beating 
with  great  heavy  throbs  that  almost  suffocated  him  ;  for 
a  wild  suspicion  had  suddenly  taken  possession  of  him. 

"You  say  the  man's  name  vias  Dale?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  William  Dale— —or  Captain  Dale,  as  we  all 
called  him.  You  see  he  was  cnly  newly  married,  and 
had  just  brought  the  little  won  an  there,  and  that  was 
the  reason  he  didn't  like  to  leave  her  alone  over  night  in 
that  wild  region,"  the  miner  explained,  beginning  to 
notice  his  listener's  strange  manner. 

"You  are  sure  that  they  we:e  married — that  she  was 
really  his  wife?"  eaid  Everet,  in  an  excited  tone. 

The  miner  looked  the  surprise  he  felt  at  such  a  question. 

"Why,  yes;  at  least  everybody  supposed  she  was  his 
wife;  he  said  she  was;  whille  they  seemed  to  set  the 
world  by  each  other,  and  the  poor  captain  giieved  like 
one  bereft  of  his  reason  when  she  died." 

"Died?"  gasped  his  listener. 

"Yes,  poor  little  lady  !  she  was  in  the  camp  just  one 
blessed  year,  then  tlie  little  shaver  came,  and  the  mother 
never  got  up  again." 

"There  was  a  child  !-"  ejaculated  Everet  Mapleson,  los 
ing  his  self-possession  mere  and  n-ore. 

"Strange,"  said  the  man,  \\ith  a  curious  stare,  "you 
seem  wonderfully  moved  over  my  story— did  you  ever 
hear  of  these  people  before  ?" 

"I'll  tell  you 'by  and  by.  But  go  on— tell  me  about 
this  child,"  Everet  eagerly  urged. 

"Well,  there  w;-.s  a  fine  boy,"  continued  the  miner, 
"and  he  was  the  pride  of  the  can  p ;  you  see  it  was  a 
rare  thing  for  a  set  of  rough  miners  to  have  a  baby 


144  JSVEEBT  MAKES  A  NEW  ACQUAINTANCE. 

among  us,  and  every  man  Jack  of  us  took  as  much  inter 
est  in  him  as  if  he'd  been  our  very  own;  but  it  cast  a 
gloom  over  the  whole  lot  when  it  came  to  be  known  that 
the  gentle  little  mother  had  to  go.  I  never  saw  a  fellow 
so  upset  as  Dale  was  over  it ;  he  went  about  with  a  face 
as  white  as  u  sheet,  and  all  bowed  down  like  an  old  man. 
Not  one  of  us  dared  to  speak  to  him  he  looked  so  awful, 
and  we  all  kept  out  of  his  way  as  much  as  we  could.  It 
came  at  last — the  final  blow;  the  captain's  lovely  wife — 
pretty  Annie  Dale — was  dead,  and  the  only  baby  in  the 
place  was  motherless. 

"  Annie    Dale !"    breathed    Everet    Mapleson,  actually 
growing  dizzy  as  he  caught  the  name. 

"Yes,  that  was  her  name,"  the  man  answered,  with  a 
sigh,  "and  I  shall  never  forget  the  day  they  buried  her. 
They  had  a  parson  over  from  Port  Union,  a  grave-spoken 
bub  pleasant-faced  man,  and  he  almost  took  us  right  into 
heaven  where  that  sweet  -woman  had  gone,  with  the 
beautiful,  solemn  words  he  spoke.  The  coffin  was  solid 
rosewood,  and  came  from  Santa  Fe,  with  another  great 
box  of  sweet  smelling  flowers.  The  captain  never  showed 
himself  that  clay  ;  he  just  sat  alone  by  the  coffin  in  the 
front  room  of  his  house  and  never  made  a  sound  until  the 
men  went  in  to  take  it  away,  when  he  gave  a  groan,  that 
I  shall  never  forget  as  long  as  I  live,  and  fell  on  his  face 
to  the  floor  where  he  was  picked  up  in  a  dead  faint.  Poor 
fellow  !  he  was  worn-out  with  watching,  to  say  nothing 
of  his  grief.  I  tell  you  that  was  a  sorry  day  for  the  camp, 
for  there  wasn't  more'n  a  half-dozen  woir>en  in  the  place, 
and  most  of  them  were  none  of  the  best ;  though  after 
the  captain's  wife  came  there  they  seemed  to  take  more 
pride  in  being  kind  of  decent.  Well,  she  was  buried  Tin 
der  a  great  cypress  tree  where  she  loved  to  sit  on  warm 
days,  and  the  captain  had  it  all  fenced  off,  after  a  while, 
and  put  a  white  stone  tip  by  the  grave  with  just  her  first 
name  on  it,  and  the  miners  rough  as  they  were,  never 
let  the  flowers  wither  on  that  grave  as  long  as  I  staid 
there.  I  don't  know  how  it  was  afterward,  for  it's  more 
than  twenty  years  since  the  poor  thing  ried." 

The  man  had  to  stop  and  use  his  handkerchief  vigor 
ously  just  here,  and  Everet  could  see  that  he  was  deeply 
moved  over  the  memory  of  that  sad  time. 

"What  became  of  the  child?"  the  young  man  asked, 
after  a  moment. 

"Well,  when  the  Dales  first  went  there  to  live,  they 
hired  a  girl  to  serve  Mrs.  Dale,  for  she  was  delicate,  and 


EVERET  MAKES  A  NEW  ACQUAINTANCE.^  H6 

the  captain  wouldn't  permit  her  to  do  any  work,  and  she 
— the  girl  had  the  care  of  the  boy  after  the  mother  died. 
But  they  didn't  stay  long  in  the  place,  only  about  a 
month.  The  captain  didn't  seem  to  have  any  heart  for 
anything ;  appeared  wretched  and  half-crazed,  and 
finally,  when  the  girl  was  married  to  a  man  named  Jack 
Henly,  who  was  going  to  California,  to  be  a  farmer,  the 
cottage  was  shut  up,  its  furniture  sold,  and  they  all  went 
away  together." 

"What  was  this  girl's  name?"  Everet  demanded. 

"Margery  something.  I  can't  remember  her  other 
name  just  now,"  said  the  miner. 

Even  though  Everet  Mapleson  had  been  expecting  just 
this  reply  it  gave  him  a  shock  when  he  heard  that  name 
pronounced. 

He  had,  at  last,  he  believed,  traced  Geoffrey  Huntress1 
birth  !  It  was  proved  that  Annie  Dale  AVP.B  his  mother. 
When  she  left  Richmond  she  had  doubtless  gone  to  the 
man  whom  she  loved,  and  who  had  enticed  her,  with 
smooth  words  and  fair  promises,  to  go  with  him  to  that 
wild  mining  region  where  they  had  lived  together  as 
husband  and  wife. 

That  they  were  not  really  so,  Everet  felt  quite  sure, 
else  the  man  would  never  have  taken  the  girl's  name,  in 
stead  of  giving  her  his  own. 

"What  did  they  name  the  child?"  he  asked. 

The  miner  looked  perplexed. 

"I'll  be  dashed  if  lean  think,"  he  said,  after  a  mo 
ment's  reflection,  as  he  scratched  his  head.  "'Twas  a  sort 
of  queer,  high  sounding  name — Jeff — Gof — or  something 
after  that  sort  with  a  tail  to  it." 

Everet  had  heard  enough  to  confirm  all  his  sus 
picions,  hut  he  did  not  enlighten  his  companion,  as  to  the 
rest  of  the  name ;  he  did  not  care  to  seem  to  know  too 
niurh. 

"Did  Captain  Dale  ever  return  to  his  mine  after  that,*1 
he  inquired. 

"Not  while  I  was  there  ;  an  agent  came  once  or  twice, 
to  not  for  him,  and  finally  bought  him  out.  I've  never 
seer,  him  since,  though  I've  often  wondered  what  became 
of  the  little  motherless  chap  that  we  were  all  so  fond  of." 

Tho  young  Southerner  sat  with  bowed  head  and 
thoucrhtful  mien  for  several  moments,  then  taking  a  case 
from  his  pocket,  he  opened  it,  and  hold  it  before  the 
Biiner. 

"Did  Annie  Dale  look  anything  like  this?"  he  asked. 


146  EVERET  MAKES  A  NEW  ACQUAINTANCE. 

The  man  gave  his  companion  a  look  of  questioning  sur 
prise  as  he  took  the  picture,  and  turning  it  toward  the 
light,  examined  it  critically  for  a  moment. 

"It  does,  and  it  doesn't,"  ho  said,  at  last.  "It  ain't  so 
delicate  like  as  she  v/as ;  the  eyes  are  a  little  smaller,  and 
the  face  fuller  and  rounder.  I  should  say  this  might  be  a 
sister  or  some  relation,  but  it  ain't  the  captain's  wife.  I 
say,  youngster,"  he  added,  looking  Everet  full  in  the  eye  ; 
"it's  mighty  queer  that  you  should  have  this  picture,  and 
it  strikes  me  thr.t  I've  been  firing  arrows  at  a  mark  I'd 
no  notion  of  hitting.  Who  be  you,  anyway  ?" 

"My  name  is  Mapleson,"  Everet  returned,  "and  the 
name  of  the  young  lady,  whose  picture  I  have  shown 
you,  was  Miss  Dannie  Davenport.  She  married  a  man  by 
the  name  of  Dale,  a  distant  connection  of  my  father's 
family.  They  had  one  child,  a  daughter,  whom  they 
named  Annie.  After  her  parents'  death,  she  suddenly 
left  the  place  where  she  had  lived,  and  no  ono  ever 
heard  anything  of  her  afterward,  and  her  disappearance 
was  a  matter  of  mystery  to  all  who  had  ever  known 
her.'' 

"You  don't  say!  Well,  I  am  beat!"  exclaimed  the 
miner,  in  astonishment.  "Things  do  come  about  queer 
enough  sometimes,  and  I  reckon  there  ain't  much  doubt 
that  the  woman  I've  been  telling  you  of  was  the  daugh 
ter  of  the  one  in  the  picture.  But — you  say  her  own 
name  was  Annie  Daley  he  concluded,  looking  puzzled. 

"Yes." 

"That's  queer,  too.    Then  v  ho  was  Captain  Dale?" 

"I  do  not  know;  possibly  some  relative,"  Everet 
said,  not  caring  to  destroy  the  man's  romance  by  arous 
ing  his  suspicions  that  there  had  been  a  story  of  shame 
enacted  in  that  mountain  camp. 

Further  conversation  developed  the  facts  that  the 
stranger  was  in  comfortable  circumstances,  the  owner  of 
two  or  three  mining  claims  in  New  Mexico,  and  was  on 
his  way  there  to  try  to  dispose  of  them. 

Everet  Mapleson  manifested  a  great  interest  in  New 
Mexico,  and  intimated  his  desire  to  accompany  his  new 
acquaintance  thither. 

The  stranger  gladly  assented,  and  said  :  "I  can  give 
you  some  points  about  the  country,  and  the  mining  busi 
ness,  too,  that  you  couldn't  find  out  for  yourself." 

"Thank  you  ;  but  if  we  are  to  be  traveling  companions, 
it  would  perhaps  be  pleasant^r  for  both  of  us  if  AVC  could 
know  each  other's  name.  Mine  is  Everet  Mapleson,  and  I 


EVERET  MAKES  A  STARTLING  DISCOVERT.          U7 

am  from  Richmond,  Virginia,"  and  the  young  Southerner 
smiled  as  he  thus  introduced  himself. 

"Well,  I'm  beat !  Here  I've  been  talking  to  you  for 
more'n  an  hour  and  neve*  told  you  who  I  be  !"  said  the 
miner,  looking  blank.  "There  ain't  nothing  high-sound 
ing  about  my  name,  but  Bob  Whittaker  is  an  honest  one, 
and  I'm  not  ashamed  of  it ;  and  I'm  from  most  anywhere, 
just  as  it  happens.  I  guess  now  we  can  hitch  bosses  and 
go  along  without  any  more  ceremony." 


CHAPTER,  XXIV. 

EVEBET  MAKES   A  STARTLING    DISCOVERY. 

It  was  settled  that  Everet  Mapleson  was  to  accom 
pany  Bob  Whittaker,  the  miner,  to  the  mines  of  New 
Slexico,  and  two  days  after  the  conversation  related  in 
the  previous  chapter  found  them  on  their  way  thither. 

Arriving  at  their  destination,  about  a  week  later,  they 
found  that  what  had  been  a  small  camp  in  those  early 
days,  when  Bob  Whittaker  had  worked  for  Captain  Dale, 
was  now  a  thriving  village,  or  "city,"  as  the  place  was 
designated  in  that  region,  and  the  miner  could  hardly 
realize  that  it  was  the  same  place  which  had  once  been  so 
familiar  to  him. 

Everet  looked  about  the  town  with  a  great  deal  of 
interest,  after  which  he  visited  the  tiny  plot  where, 
overshadowed  by  a  venerable  cypress  tree,  all  that  re 
mained  of  beautiful  Annie  Dale  rested. 

There  was  no  sign  of  any  grave  there  now  ;  every  trace 
of  it  had  disappeared.  There  was  nothing  save  a  simple 
head-stone  of  pure. Italian  marble,  with  the  single  name 
"Annift"  inscribed  upon  it,  standing  in  the  center  of  the 
inolosure,  to  mark  ttir>  spot  where  she  had  been  laid. 

Two  or  three  varieties  of  ivy  had  been  planted  by  some 
loving  hand  beside  the  feive  which  surrounded  it,  nnd 
a  luxuriant  growth  now  almost  concealed  it  from  view, 
and  embowered  the  little  plot  of  ground  in  a  frame-work 
of  living  green. 

Tho  small  house,  where  the  beautiful  cirl  had  lived 
during  that  short,  happy  year,  and  where  her  child  wns 
born — where,  as  Everet  Mapleson  firmly  believed.  Geof 
frey  Dnle  Huntress  was  born — stood  near  this  spot,  and 
was  still  empty. 


148          EVERET  MAKES  A  STARTLING  DISCOVERT. 

No  one  had  ever  lived  in  it  «;ince  (he  poor  young 
mother  died,  one  of  the  older  inhabitants  of  the  village 
told  him.  Il  was  believed  that  the  fan.e  genthn  an  ovned 
it  still,  though  he  had  not  been  seen  tlitie  lor  3  ears,  and 
would  not  allow  any  one  else  to  ccciij  y  it.  It  seen  ed  as 
if  he  deemed  the  place  too  pacitd  to  be  invaded  hy 
strangers,  and  so  had  preferred  1o  sacrifice  it  to  desola 
tion  and  decay. 

Everet  passed  through  the  small  yard,  now  thickly 
overgrown  with  vines  and  bi;.n  V,]<  s,  to  the  tiny  pouh, 
and  looked  in  through  the  fide-lights  of  the  front  door. 

The  doors  on  each  side  of  the  MI  all  1  all  A\ere  all  open, 
and  the  place  was  laie  and  forlorn  in  the  extren-e,  aro  in 
strange  and  gloomy  contrast  with  that  luxuiious  little 
nest  near  the  old  mill  at  home,  that  had  been  Annie 
Dale's  rormer  home.. 

He  went  around  the  house,  perpirg  in  at  each  window; 
but  there  was  nothing  to  be  peen  fave  hare  floors,  ;.nd 
walls  from  which  the  rich  payer,  that  hrd  rnce  adoii  ed 
them,  was  falling  away,  "while  every  nook  and  coiner 
was  infested  with  dust  and  cobwebs. 

He  came  hack  again,  after  a  tnre.  to  the  front  porch, 
where  he  sat  down  upon  one  of  the  steps,  wondering 
where  he  should  turn  next  to  pick  up  the  t lire  ad  \\  1  ich 
seemed  to  have  suddenly  broken  ai  d  vanished  from  sight 
again  here. 

He  sat  there  a  long  time  pondering  the  mystery — who 
was  the  man  who  had  called  hinsdf  \Villiam  Dale? — 
whither  had  he  gone  after  leaving  that  place,  and  which 
way  should  he — Everet  Mapleson — turn  now  to  hunt  him 
down  ? 

But  he  could  arrive  at  no  definite  conclusion  ;  thrre 
wag  only  one  thing  that  he  could  think  of  to  do  to  satisfy 
himself  regarding  the  truth  of  a  suspicion  that,  haunted 
him  continually,  and  that  he  shrank  from  with  a  feeling 
that  was  akin  to  horror;  while  it  might  result  in  nothing 
save  making  a  fool  of  himself  and  becoming  an  object  of 
ridicule  and  scorn. 

He  arose  at  last,  with  a  sigh  of  weariness  and  discour 
agement  to  return  to  the  public  bouse  where  he  was 
staying  and  to  seek  his  new  friei'id.  Bob  Whittaker. 

But,  owing  to  the  cramped  posi  ion  in  wich  he  had  been 
sitting,  cne  of  his  feet  had  "gone  to  sleep,"  and  he  found 
he  could  not  walk  a  step. 

He  stamped  vigorously,  and  impatiently,  too,  for  the 
intense  prickling  sensation  witb  which  circulate™  began 


EVEHET  HAKES  A  KTAHTLING  DISCOVERT.          149 

to  reassert  itself  irritated  him,  when,  without  the  slight 
est  warning,  tne  step  on  which  he  was  standing  gave 
way  and  he  was  unceremoniously  precipitated  into  the 
rank  grass  and  among  the  brambles  which  grew  ail  about 
it. 

He  picked  himself  up,  after  giving  vent  to  a   somewhat 
unrefined    expression    of    annoyance,    rescued    his    hat, 
which    had  lodged  in  a  prickly  cactus   near-by,  and   then 
•  turned  to  see  how  much  damage  he  had  done. 

The  step  was  a  complete  wreck,  the  top  board  being 
split  entirely  across,  while  the  rotten  supports  beneath 
were  wholly  demolished,  and  lay  in  a  crumbled  heap  ou 
the  ground. 

He  gave  the  mass  a  kick  with  his  foot,  scattering  it 
right  and  left,  when  suddenly  a  gleam  of  light  from 
something  among  it,  flashed  into  his  eye. 

He  stooped  to  see  what  had  caused  it,  when,  to  his  in 
tense  surprise,  he  found  a  small  ring,  the  gold  all  black 
ened  and  tarnished,  but  with  a  beautiful  diamond,  clear 
and  brilliant  as  a  drop  of  dew  in  the  sunlight,  set  in  its 
delicate  crown. 

"  Well,  I  imagine  I  have  found  a  treasure  now,"  Everefc 
exclaimed,  eagerly,  as  he  turned  it  over  and  over  to  ex 
amine  it  more  closely. 

He  saw  that  there  was  some  inscription  upon  its  inner 
surface,  but  it  was  so  blackened  with  age  and  so  filled 
with  dirt  that  he  could  not  make  it  out. 

"Aha!"  he  cried,  exultantly,  "I'll  wager  almost  any 
thing  that  I  have  at  last  found  the  end  of  the  broken 
thread  that  will  unravel  the  mystery." 

He  sat  down  again  upon  the  upper  step  of  the  porch, 
deliberately  drew  a  cigar  from  his  pocket,  lighted  it,  and 
began  to  smoke. 

Tho  first  ashes  that  he  datached  from  it  he  carefully 
saved  upon  a  piece  of  wood,  and,  using  his  handkerchief, 
began  to  polish  the  discolored  ring  with  them. 

It  was  not  long  before  his  efforts  were  rewarded — the 
inner  surface  of  the  ring  began  to  take  on  its  original 
color  and  the  inscription  to  stand  out  more  plainly. 

"It  is  evidently  an  engagement-ring  with  only  some  in 
itials  and  a  date  engraven  upon  it,"  the  young  man  mur 
mured,  as  he  held  it  up  to  inspect  it  more  closely. 

The  next  instant  he  lifted  his  head  with  an  air  of 
triumph,  though  his  face  was  as  white  as  a  sheet. 

"It  is  the  icey  to  the  whole  mystery,"  he  said.  "This 
will  take  me  straight  to  the  heart  of  the  secret." 


1JO  EVERET  MAKES  A  STARTLING  DISCOVERY. 

While  Everet  Mapleson  was  following  the  trail  of  tha 
mystery  that  possessed  such  a  power  of  fascination  over 
him,  August  Huntress  and  his  family  were  luxuriating 
at  {Saratoga. 

Mr.  Huntress  had  obstinately  insisted  that  Geoffrey 
should  have  a  long  holiday  alter  the  clo.se  application  of 
the  last  three  years,  although  the  young  man  himself 
wouiri  have  much  preferred,  and  was  very  eager  to  begin 
the  real  business  of  his  life  at  once. 

"It  is  time  that  I  was  at  work  for  myself, "he  had 
pleaded,  "and  if  ^ou  will  only  use  your  influence,  Uncle 
August,  to  help  me  into  some  good  position,  my  con 
science  would  be  easier." 

"Your  conscience  needn't  trouble  you,  and  I  won't 
hear  a  word  about  business  for  three  months  to  come,"  re 
plied  iiis  friend,  decisively.  "You've  given  yourself  no 
rest  during  all  your  college  course,  and  now,  my  boy, 
I'm  determined  that  we  shall  all  have  a  jolly  good  time 
together  to  celebrate  your  own  and  Gladys'  release  from 
school-life." 

So,  by  the  middle  of  July,  they  were  settled  for  the 
summer  in  pleasant  rooms  at  the  Grand  Union,  and  were 
as  happy  and  united  a  party  as  ever  visited  that  resort  of 
gayety  and  fashion. 

Gladys  was  very  much  admired  from  the  first ;  her 
beauty  and  charming  manners  winning  her  legions  of 
friends. 

But  none  of  them  were  to  be  compared  to  Geoffrey, 
and  the  lovers  managed  to  be  much  by  themselves,  in 
spite  of  the  fact  that  "  that  delightful  Miss  Huntress  was 
such  a  favorite  with  everybody." 

One  morning  they  were  leisurely  strolling  through  one 
of  the  shady  avenues  of  Congress  Park,  when  they  saw  a 
distinguished-looking  gentleman  advancing  toward  them. 

He  did  not  appear  to  notice  them,  however,  until  he 
was  almost  upon  them,  when,  suddenly  looking  up,  ho 
gave  a  violent  start  of  surprise  ;  then  he  advanced,  with 
an  eager  smile  and  extended  hand,  exclaiming  : 

"Why,  Everet  Mapleson  !  Where  on  earth  did  you  drop 
from?  I  should  as  soon  have  thought  of  seeing  the  Em 
peror  of  Russia  as  yourself  this  morning." 

Geoffrey  lifted  his  hat  and  bowed  politely  to  the  speaker, 
as  he  replied  : 

u  You  have  made  a  slight  mistake,  sir  ;  I  am  not  Evsret 
Mapleson,  although  this  is  not  the  first  time  that  I  have 
been  taken  for  him." 


XVERET  MAKEH  A  STARTLING  DISCOVERT.          151 

"Nonsense;  don't  try  to  play  such  a  joke  on  me — 
I've  known  you  too  many  years  for  you  to  palm  your 
self  oil  us  any  one  else,"  returned  the  gentleman,  laugh 
ingly,  while  ne  shot  an  amused  glance  at  the  yount;  man's 
companion,  as  it'  he  suspected  that  she  was  the  cause  of 
his  wishing  to  remain  incog. 

"I  assure  you,  sir,  I  am  speaking  the  truth.  I  am  not 
Everet  Mupleson,"  Geoffrey  reiterated. 

Tiie  stranger's  face  grew  suddenly  overcast. 

"Then  wno  in  thunder  are  you?11  he  demanded,  in 
sharp,  excited  accents. 

"My  name  is  Geoffrey  Dale  Huntress,  at  your  service, 
sir,''  Geoffrey  responded,  courteously,  although  he  had 
flushed  hotly  at  the  curt  question. 

"Geoffrey  Dale  !  Good  heavens  !"  cried  the  man,  shrink 
ing  back  as  if  he  had  been  dealt  a  violent  blow,  and  grow 
ing  deathly  pale. 

Geoffrey  himself  turned  white  at  this. 

He  was  ever  on  the  alert  to  gain  some  knowedge  of  his 
parentage,  and  this  man's  strange  manner  made  him  think 
that  perhaps  he  might  know  something  of  his  early  his 
tory. 

"  Yes,  sir ;  I  perceive  that  the  name  affects  you 
strangely.  Did  you  ever  hear  it  before?"  he  asked, 
earnestly,  searching  the  stranger's  face. 

"Ah — years  ago — a  friend — excuse  me — I  am  very  much 
overcome,"  the  man  murmured,  incoherently,  as  he  stag 
gered  to  a  rustic  bench  near  by,  where,  sinking  upon  it 
and  bowing  his  head  upon  his  hands,  he  groaned  aloud. 

Geoffrey  stood  transfixed,  his  face  plainly  betraying 
anxiety,  dread,  and  perplexity,  while  he  was  inwardly  so 
excited  over  this  strange  meeting  that  Gladys,  as  she 
leaned  upon  his  arm,  could  feel  him  trembling  in  every 
limb. 

"Will  you  explain  yourself,  sir?"  Geoffrey  said  at 
length,  and  feeling  that  the  silence  and  mystery  were  be 
coming  intolerable.  "Do  you  know  aught  of  me — of  any 
person  named  Dale?" 

The  gentleman  shivered,  as  if  the  question  had  jarred 
upon  some  sensitive  chord. 

"Yea,"  he  answered,  after  a  moment  of  hesitation, 
while  he  lifted  a  haggard  face  to  his  questioner  ;  "years 
fcgo  I  had  a  friend  by  that  name  ;  but — but — 

"Will  you  relate  the  history  of  that  friend  to  me?" 
Geoffrey  asked,  with  white  lips,  and  speaking  with  an 
effort. 


152          EVEBET  MAKES  A  STARTLING  DISCO  VERY, 

Something  seemed  to  tell  him  that  he  was  standing  on 
the  very  threshold  of  the  revelation  which  he  had  longed 
for  so  many  years. 

Again  the  stranger  shrank  as  if   he   had   been  smitten. 

"Why  do  you  ask  me  that?"  be  huskily  demanded. 

"Because,"  Geoffrey  returned,  with  grave  earnestness, 
"there  is  a  mystery  connected  with  my  own  life — bo- 
cause,  when  I  was  a  child  I  was  abandoned  in  the  most 
cruel  manner,  and  but  for  the  goodness  of  the  man  who 
found  me  an  outcast  in  the  streets  of  New  York " 

"New  York!  How  came  you  there?"  interrupted  his 
listener,  amazed. 

"That  is  more  than  I  can  tell  you,  sir.  This  gentleman 
found  me  in  a  state  of  imbecility,  took  me  to  his  home, 
cared  for  me  until  I  was  restored  to  my  right  mind,  and 
then  adopted  and  educated  me  as  hia  own  son;  but  for- 
him  I  should  still  have  been  an  imbecile,  and  more  piti 
able  than  the  lowest  paupers  that  wander  about  the 
streets  ot  that  city." 

"What !  what  is  this  that  you  are  telling  me?  An  im 
becile  I  I  cannot  understand,"  cried  the  man,  looking 
bewildered. 

"I  do  not  know  how  I  came  to  be  in  such  a  state," 
Geoffrey  continued;  "the  physicians  said  it  was  caused 
by  some  injury  while  I  was  very  young,  so  my  life  before 
that  time  has  remained  a  mystery  to  myself  and  those 
who  have  befriended  me.  If  you  can  throw  any  light 
upon  it,  sir,  I  entreat  you  to  do  so." 

The  man  quickly  arose  from  his  seat  at  this  appeal, 
but  staggei'ed  like  a  person  who  had  been  drinking  deeply, 
and  seemed  like  one  who  had  sustained  a  terrible  mental 
shook. 

"I  cannot  tell  you  anything  now,"  he  said,  putting  hia 
hand  to  his  head.  "I  shall  have  to  ask  you  to  excuse  r»ie. 
1  cannot  think ;  I  must  have  time  to  recover  my 
self." 

"  I  do  not  understand  your  excessive  emotion,  sir.  I  d-i 
not  understand  your  desire  to  avoid  explaining  your  verj 
strange  words  and  manner,"  Geoffrey  interposed,  looking 
both  pained  and  anxious  ;  "but  I  am  terribly  in  earnest 
about  this  matter,  and  if  you  know  anything  about  my 
family  or  antecedents,  I  beg  that  you  will  not  keep  me  in. 
suspense." 

"Some  other  time  I  will  talk  with  you  again, "  mur 
mured  the  stranger,  turning  aside,  and  striving  to  keep 
his  eyes  averted. 


GEOFFREY  PICKS  UP  A  THREAD.  1&5 

•'When?  name  any  place  and  hour,  and  I  will  come  to 
you,"  said  Geoffrey,  eagerly. 

The  man  thought  a  moment,  then  said  : 

"Come  to  me  at  five  o'clock  this  afternoon,  at  the 
'United  States,'  and  inquire  for  room  forty-five." 

He  turned  abruptly  away,  and  would  have  passed  on, 
but  Geoffrey  detained  him. 

"What  is  your  name,  please?"  he  asked. 

"That  you  shall  know  when  we  meet  again,"  was  the 
evasive  reply. 

"Tell  me  one  thing,"  pleaded  the  young  man,  greatly 
agitated;  "did  this — friend  of  yours,  have  a  son  bearing 
the  name  that  I  have  given  you  /" 

A  groan  of  pain  escaped  the  man. 

"Come  to  me  at  five  this  afternoon.  I  am  not  fit  to  talk 
more  with  you  now,"  was  the  tremulous  reply,  and  the 
man  moved  weakly  away,  seeming  more  like  a  person 
eighty  years  of  age  than  like  the  upright,  distinguished- 
looking  individual  of  fifty,  whom  the  young  couple  had 
met  a  few  moments  before. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

GEOFFREY  PICKS  UP  A  THREAD. 

41  Who  can  he  be?  How  strangely  he  acts,"  Gladys 
said,  as  she  gazed  after  the  retreating  form.  "One  would 
almost  believe  he  has  some  personal  connection  with 
your  history,  he  TV  as  so  agitated  on  learning  your  name." 

"I  am  sure  that  he  has,  Gladys  ;  1  believe  that  man  is 
my  father  I"  Geoffrey  replied,  with  quivering  lips. 

"Oh,  Geoff!" 

"I  do,  dear;  and  I  fear,  too,  that  there  is  some  miser 
able  secret  connected  with  my  early  life." 

"Do  not  think  that,"  the  beautiful  girl  pleaded;"! 
will  not  believe  it  without  the  strongest  proof  ;  and  even 
if  it  should  be  so,  the  fact  cannot  harm  you." 

"Gladys,"  Geoffrey  said,  in  a  stern,  repressed  tone, 
while  his  face  was  dreadful  to  look  upon  in  its  ghastli- 
ness,  "if  there  is  sin  connected  with  my  life — if  I  find 
that  my  birthright  is  one  of  shame — I  can  never  ask  you 
to  share  it." 

Gladys  clasped  both  hands  closely  about  her  lover's 
arm. 


154  GEOFFREY  PICKS  UP  A  THREAD. 

"Geoffrey,  surely  you  will  not  ruin  both  our  lives  by 
any  such  rash  decision  ?"  she  pleaded,  lifting  her  trou 
bled  face  to  his.  "  It  is  you  whom  I  love,  not  an  illus 
trious  pedigree.  As  far  as  my  future  with  you  is  con 
cerned,  I  care  not  who  or  what  your  parents  may  have 
been.  Do  not  let  anything  of  that  nature  come  between 
us  ;  it  is  false  pride,  and  unworthy  of  you." 

The  young  man  regarded  her  with  exceeding  tender 
ness,  but  he  was  still  greatly  disturbed  by  his  recent 
interview  with  the  stranger,  and  could  not  readily  regain 
his  composure. 

He  believed  that  he  was  on  the  verge  of  an  important 
discovery,  and  he  was  at  the  same  time  impressed  that  it 
would  only  bring  him  shame  and  sorrow. 

"Gladys,  would  you  not  shrink  from  marrying  a  man 
whose  mother  had  never  been — a  wife?"  he  asked,  a  hot 
flush  mounting  to  his  brow. 

"I  could  never  shrink  from  you,  Geoff ery,  and  I  would 
not  accept  the  proudest  position  in  the  land  in  exchange 
for  your  love.  I  might  deeply  regret  such  a  circumstance, 
on  your  account ;  but,  dear,  my  affection  for  you  is  far 
too  strong  to  be  weakened  by  a  mere  accident  of  birth. 
Let  us  put  all  such  dismal  thoughts  away  from  our 
minds.  I  will  not  believe  that  dishonor  has  ever  touched 
you  or  yours,"  Gladys  concluded,  looking  up  with  a  fond 
smile. 

"Dear  little  comforter,"  murmured  the  young  man, 
trying  to  return  it,  though  it  Avas  but  the  ghost  of  one. 

"Do  not  go  near  that  man,  Geoff,"  Gladys  continued. 
"Let  us  be  happy  as  we  are,  and  not  trouble  ourselves 
about  the  past." 

The  poor  fellow  sighed,  as  if  it  would  be  a  great  relief 
to  let  it  go,  to  consign  it  to  oblivion,  but  the  anxious  look 
did  not  leave  his  face. 

"I  cannot,  Gladys,"  he  said,  with  pale,  compressed  lips. 
"I  shall  never  rest  until  all  the  dark  mystery  of  my  past 
life  is  explained.  I  must  keep  my  appointment  with  that 
man  this  afternoon,  and  I  will  not  leave  him  iintil  I  have 
wrung  from  him  every  scrap  of  information  that  he  may 
possess  regarding  me  and  mine,  and  if — 

"Geoff,  what?"  cried  the  young  girl,  breathlessly, 
alarmed  by  his  unusual  tone,  and  tho  look  upon  his  face. 

"If  I  find  that  that  man  is  my  fnther,  and  that  he 
wronged  my  mother,  he  shall  have  reason  to  regret  both 
those  facts  for  the  remainder  of  his  life,"  was  the  stern 
reply. 


GEOFFREY  PICKS  UP  A  THREAD.  155 

"Geoffrey,  surely  you  will  do  nothing  to  compromise 
yourself?"  Gladys  pleaded,  anxiously. 

u  No,  dear,  for  your  sake  as  well  as  my  own,  I  will  do 
nothing  to  make  myself  disagreeably  conspicuous.  But 
he  will  not  forget  if  I  find  my  suspicions  are  true.  You 
will  say  nothing  to  Uncle  August  or  Aunt  Alice  regard 
ing  this  encounter,  please,  until  after  I  have  seen  him." 

"No,  certainly  not,  if  you  prefer  I  should  not  tell 
them,"  Gladys  readily  promised. 

They  turned  to  retrace  their  way  to  the  hotel,  both  too 
much  disturbed  by  the  occurrence  of  the  morning  and 
by  forebodings  regarding  the  afternoon's  appointment,  to 
care  to  prolong  their  stroll. 

They  parted   at  the   ladies  entrance,  Gladys   going  up 
stairs   to   her   mother's   apartments,  where   she  tried   to. 
busy   herself   with   some  fancy   work   until   lunch   time, 
although    her  heart  was  in   a   continual  flutter  of   appre 
hension  and  miserable  suspense. 

Geoffrey  shut  himself  up  in  his  own  room,  alone,  for  a 
season,  but  was  too  wretched  to  remain  there  inactive, 
and  soon  went  out  again. 

When  the  family  went  down  to  luncheon  he  was  still 
absent,  and  his  seat  vacant. 

This  was  such  nn  unprecedented  occurrence  that  Mr. 
Huntress  left  the  table  to  ascertain  the  reason. 

He  soon  returned  with  the  information  that  Geoffrey 
had  gone  rut,  but  had  left  word  with  the  clerk,  in  case 
inquiries  should  be  made  for  him,  that  he  might  not  be 
back  for  several  hours. 

Mrs.  Huntress  glanced  at  Gladjrs  as  her  husband  made 
this  report,  but  she  gave  no  sign  of  either  surprise  or 
disappointment.  She  had  noticed  an  unusual  reserve  and 
quietness  about  her,  ever  since  her  return  from  her 
walk,  and  a  suspicion  crossed  her  mind  that  perhaps 
there  might  be  some  misunderstanding  or  lover's  quar 
rel,  that  had  caused  this  unwonted  break  in  the  family 
party. 

She  kept  her  suspicions  to  herself,  however,  resolving; 
to  await  further  developments. 

It  was  after  PI'X  o'clook  when  Geoffrev  returned. 
Gladys  was  watching  for  him,  at  one  end  of  the  veranda, 
and  sprang  from  the  chair  to  ero  to  meet  him,  as  he  came 
up  the  steps  and  then  stopped  short  as  she  caught  sight 
of  his  face. 

It  was  as  colorless  as  marble,  and  there  was  a  look  in 
his  eye  that  actually  made  her  tremble. 


156     .  GEOFF1USY  PICKS  UP  A  THREAD. 

He  did  not  speak,  or  even  smile,  as  lie  came  tip  to  her, 
but  quietly  drew  her  hand  through  his  arm,  led  her  within 
the  house,  and  to  a  small  reception-room,  carefully  shut- 
tine:  the  door  behind  them. 

Then  he  turned  again  and  faced  her. 

"Gladys,"  he  said,  in  a  hollow,  unnatural  tone,  "it 
is  as  I  feared " 

"Geoffrey  !"  she  cried,  in  a  shocked  voice,  all  her  own 
bright  color  fading. 

"The  worst  is  true,"  he  concluded,  not  heeding  her 
interruption. 

"Have  you  seen  him? — did  he  tell  you  so?"  she  asked. 

"No,  I  have  not  seen  him.:: 

"Then  how  do  you  know  s*' 

"He  has  fled." 

"Fled?" 

"Yes.  I  went  to  the  'United  States'  at  five  this  after 
noon.  I  called  a  servant  to  show  me  the  way  to  room 
number  forty-five,  and  was  told  that  the  gentleman  who 
had  occupied  it  left  at  twelve  to-day." 

"How  very  strange!"  said  Gladys,  astonished. 

"No,  it  is  not  strange,"  Geoffrey  returned,  bitterly; 
"the  man  is  a  miserable  coward,  and  he  dare  not  meet 
me  ;  his  history  is  doubtless  one  of  shame  and  wrong — he 
knew  that  I  would  force  it  from  him,  and  he  fears  to 
remain  and  confess  it.  But,  Gladys,  I  shall  find  him  yet 
— some  day  I  will  compel  him  to  face  me  and  own  the 
truth.  I  will  hunt  him  down  !  he  shall  not  escape  me  !" 

"Oh,  Geoffrey,  pray  do  not  let  it  trouble  you  so — there 
may  have  been  some  other  reason  for  his  going,"  said 
the  young  girl,  laying  her  hand  sympathetically  on  his 
arm. 

"No — I  tell  you  he  was  afraid  to  meet  me,  and  his  guilt 
is  evident  in  his  flight;  he  never  would  have  run  away 
like  this,  if  there  had  been  no  guilty  secret  in  his  life 
which  he  was  anxious  to  conconl  from  me." 

"Did  you  learn  his  name?"  Gladys  inquired. 

A  deep  flush  arose  to  Geoffrey's  brow,  and  he  gave  a 
Start  of  annoyance. 

"No,"  he  said,  "I  was  so  wretched  and  angiythat  I 
never  thought  to  ask  his  name.  When  the  servant  told 
me  he  was  gone,  T  turned  on  my  heel  and  walked  out  of 
the  house  and  have  been  walking  ever  since,  trying  to 
recover  my  composure." 

"That  was  an  oversight,  dear,"  said  his  betrothed,  gent 
ly  ;  "you  should  have  secured  his  name  and  address." 


GEOFFREY  PICKS  UP  A  THREAD.  157 

"You  are  right ;  I  will  go  back  immediately  and  ascer 
tain  it." 

"Oh,  Geoffrey,  perhaps  it  will  be  better  for  you  to 
leave  it  all  just  here,"  the  fair  girl  urged.  "'Where  ig 
norance  is  bliss' — you  know  the  rest." 

"  But  I  know  too  much  already  ;  I  can  never  rest  until 
I  sift  tin's  matter  to  the  very  bottom.  Could  you,  dar 
ling?  If  you  were  not  U«cle  August's  own  child,  and 
knew  tliere  was  some  mystery  connected  with  your 
birth,  would  you  be  satisfied  until  you  knew  the  truth?" 

"No,  Geoff,  I  don't  believe  I  should,"  Gladys  replied, 
thoughtfully,  "and — I  know  that  such  a  discovery  would 
make  me  very  unhappy,"  she  concluded,  with  starting 
tears. 

Geoffrey  stoopod  and  kissed  her  fondly,  then  turned 
abruptly  and  left  the  room. 

The  young  girl  sighed  wearily  as  she  slowly  followed 
him. 

"I  am  afraid  there  is  trouble  in  store  for  him,  for  my 
heart  is  heavy  with  forebodings,"  she  murmured. 

Half  an  hour  later,  Geoffrey  returned,  and  there  was 
now  a  savage  glitter  in  his  eyes,  although  his  face  was 
pale  and  full  of  pain. 

He  found  Gladys  watching  for  him  as  before. 

He  went  up  behind  her  chair,  leaned  down,  and  whis 
pered  in  her  ear  : 

"The  man's  name  is — William  Dale,  and  he  registered 
from  Fort  Union,  New  Mexico." 

Gladys  looked  around,  a  startled  expression  on  her 
face. 

"William  Dale  !"  she  repeated  ;  "then  he  must  be " 

"My  father,  and — a  parent  to  be  proud  of,  surely,"  the 
young  man  interposed,  with  exceeding  bitterness.  "Oh, 
Gladys!"  he  continued,  in  an  angonized  whisper,  "I  feel 
OR  if  I  should  go  mad — I  can  bear  anything  better  than 
dishonor." 

Gladys  turned  and  laid  her  soft  cheek  for  an  instant 
against  the  hand  that  was  resting  on  the  back  of  her 
chm'r. 

The  involuntary  and  sympathetic  caress  comforted  him 
moro  than  any  words  could  have,  done,  for  it  seemed  to 
say.  no  matter  what  lay  away  bnrk  among  those  early 
years  before  she  knew  birr.,  nothing  could  chancre  her 
love  for  him,  and  he  would  always  be  the  same  to  her. 

"I  wish  I  could  knoAv  the  story  of  my  mother's  life,** 
Geoffrey  continued,  with  a  sigh,  while  a  moisture  gath- 


15S  GEOFFREY  PICKS  UP  A  THREAD. 

ered  in  his  eyes.  "Poor  woman  '  I  am  afraid  that  her 
fate  must  have  been  a  sorrowful  one.  Darling,  I  believe 
I  shall  go  to  New  Mexico  ai  d  see  what  I  can  learn  about 
this  man  who  registered  from  Fort  Union." 

"Oh,  Geoff/  I  fear  it  will  only  be  chasing  a  '  will-o'-the- 
whisp  !'"  Gladys  said,  looking  distressed. 

"  I  cannot  help  it.  I  must  go.  I  shall  be  wretched  and 
good  for  nothing  until  I  learn  all  there  is  to  know.  I  am 
going  now  to  tell  Uncle  August  about  it." 

He  sought  Mr.  Huntress,  and  laid  ihe  whole  matter 
before  him,  making  known  his  desire,  too,  to  go  to  New 
.VIexico  to  see  if  he  could  gain  any  further  clew. 

Mr.  Huntress  sympathized  heartily  vith  him,  and  fav 
ored  the  project.  He  could  well  understand  how  restless 
and  miserable  Geoffrey  would  be  until  he  had  used  every 
possible  means  to  discover  his  parentage. 

So  he  did  all  that  he  could  to  hasten  and  facilitaie  his 
departure,  and  even  offered  to  accompany  him  ;  but 
Geoffrey  frankly  told  him  that  he  preferred  to  go  alone. 

He  felt  that  if  he  must  learn  that  any  stigma  rested  on 
his  birth,  he  could  not  bear  to  have  any  one,  not  even  his 
kind  friend,  witness  the  struggle  that  must  come  with 
the  knowledge.  He  could  fight  it  best  by  himself. 

He  left  the  next  day  but  one,  but  owing  to  delays  both 
by  rail  and  coach,  he  did  not  reach  Fort  Union  until  ten 
days  later. 

He  made  inquiries  here  for  a  man  named  William  Dale, 
but  for  several  days  could  gain  no  intelligence  whatever 
regarding  such  a  person. 

At  last  he  fell  in  with  an  old  miner,  by  the  merest  acci 
dent,  who  had  known  a  man  by  that  name  many  years 
previous,  and  who  directed  him  to  that  mining  village 
already  described. 

Thither  Geoffrey  hastened  at  once,  reaching  it  one 
evening  just  at  sundown,  and  only  a  week  after  Everet 
Mapleson's  visit  to  the  same  place. 

Here  he  learned  something  of  Annie  Dale's  story,  for 
Everet's  inquiries  and  interest  in  the  same  person  had 
revived  memories  regarding  that  sad  romance,  and  it  had 
become  a  common  theme  since. 

Annie  Dale's  g>ave,  and  the  house  where  she  had  lived, 
were  pointed  out  to  Geoffrey,  and  he  went  by  himself  to 
visit  them. 

He  came  to  the  dismantled  home  first,  and  walked 
round  and  round  it,  as  Everet  Mapleson  had  done,  peer 
ing  in  through  the  windows,  noting  the  position  of  the 


GEOFFREY  PICK'S  UP  A  THREAD.  159 

rooms,  and  wondering  if  he  should  ever  know  if  this  had 
really  been  the  home  of  his  mother,  and  under  what  cir 
cumstances  she  had  lived  there  ;  whether  stie  had  been  a 
loved  and  honored  wife,  or  whether  her  early  death  had 
been  caused  by  some  secret  sorrow  that  had  broken  her 
heart. 

He  knew  there  had  been  another  visitor  there  before 
him — although  he  had  been  told  nothing  regarding  the 
stranger's  visit  of  the  week  previous — for  the  broken 
step  and  the  trampled  grass  gave  ample  evidence  of  that 
fact. 

He  wondered  if  it  could  have  been  the  man  who  had  so 
suddenly  fled  from  Saratoga  after  meeting  him,  who  had, 
perhaps,  been  driven  there  by  sorrow  and  remorse  to 
look  once  more  upon  the  ruin  he  had  wrought. 

He  grew  more  and  more  fearful  that  the  story  of  his 
birth  must  be  a  sorrowful  one,  for  it  was  evident  that  no 
one  bearing  the  name  of  William  Dale  had  ever  resided 
in  Fort  Union. 

He  would  not  have  been  able  to  trace  the  man  beyond 
that  point  at  all,  but  for  his  accidental  meeting  with  the 
old  miner,  who  had  worked  in  the  mines  where  he  had 
owned  an  interest,  and  thus  been  able  to  direct  him  to 
this  remote  village. 

If  William  Dale  had  never  lived  at  Fort  Union,  why 
had  he  registered  from  that  place  if  If  he  was  now  living 
at  Fort  Union,  and  his  name  was  not  William  Dale,  why 
had  he  used  that  address  again  after  the  lapse  of  so  many 
years? 

Thore  was  something  very  mysterious  about  the  whole 
matter,  and  it  began  to  seem  like  a  hopeless  puzzle  to 
the  young  man. 

He  finally  left  the  house  and  bent  his  steps  toward  that 
small  inclosure  where,  in  the  gathering  dusk,  he  could 
just  see  the  pure  white  head-stone  gleaming  among  the 
vines  that  grew  all  around  it. 

He  entered  the  place  and  approached  the  spot,  noting 
that  here,  too,  there  were  signs  of  a  recent  visitor,  and 
knelt  down  to  read  the  name  that  had  been  inscribed 
upon  the  spotless  marble. 

"Annie, "he  read,  and  the  single  name  sent  a  thrill 
through  every  fiber  of  his  being. 

Here,  too,  there  seemed  evidence  that  there  was  some 
sad  tale  of  wrong  and  suffering  connected  with  the  life  of 
the  girl  who  had  been  buried  there,  for  had  she  bean  a 
wife  and  with  nothing  to  conceal.,  would  not  a  fond  hus- 


160  A  THRILLING  STORY. 

band  have  wished  the  name  that  he  had  given  her  also 
chiseled  there? 

"Oh,  if  I  could  only  know  !"  Geoffrey  groaned  within 
himself,  as  he  bowed  his  head  upon  the  stone,  feeling 
completely  baffled,  and  as  if  all  trace  must  end  here. 
"Was  this  woman  my  mother?  She  was  something  to 
William  Dale,  and  William  Dale  is  something  to  me,  or 
he  would  never  have  betrayed  so  much  emotion  upon 
meeting  me,  and  then  fled  from  me.  Was  she  his  lawful 
wife?  Am  I  her  child,  and  had  I  honorable  birth? 

"Good  heavens!"  he  added,  aloud,  "there  must  be 
some  way  to  solve  these  questions.  Oh,  if  the  Fates 
would  but  guide  me  to  some  one  who  could  tell  me  how 
to  unravel  this  mystery  !" 

"Ahem  !  Well,  youngster,  I  shouldn't  wonder  if  I  was 
yer  man.  What'll  ye  give  to  hear  a  prettier  love-story 
than  ever  was  writ?1' 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

A      THRILLING      STORY. 

Geoffrey  starred  to  his  feet  as  if  electrified,  as  these 
unexpected  words  fell  upon  his  ears,  and  found  himself 
face  to  face  with  a  man  of  perhaps  fifty  yeaz's,  his  face 
seamed  and  browned  by  hardships  and  exposure,  rough 
in  appearance,  uncouth  in  dress,  and  with  an  anxious, 
alert  air  about  him,  which  conveyed  the  impression  that 
he  feared  being  identified  and  apprehended  for  some  rea 
son  or  other. 

"Who  are  you?"  Geoffrey  sternly  demanded,  for  he 
knew  that  country  was  not  the  safest  place  in  the  world, 
and  it  flashed  upon  his  mind  that  the  man  might  be  a 
robber,  and  had  followed  him  there  with  some  evil  in 
tent. 

"I'm  all  right.  I've  no  wish  to  harm  ye,  sir,"  was  the 
reassuring  response,  as  the  new-comer  appeared  to  read 
his  thought,  "and  I  guess  it  don't  matter  much  who  I  be, 
provided  I  can  tell  ye  what  ye  seem  to  want  to  know 
about  this  here  grave." 

uNo,"  replied  Geoffrey,  his  suspicions  instantly  van 
ishing.  "If  you  can  give  me  the  history  of  the  poor  lady 
who  lies  here,  and  tell  .me  where  I  can  find  the  man  who 
brought  her  here,  I'll  pay  you  ^ell,  and  ask  no  further 


A  THRILLING  STORY.  161 

questions  about  yourself.     But  how  came  you  to  follow 
me  to  thin  place  ?" 

"I  didn't  fuller  ye.  I  was  sittin'  yonder,  behind  that 
clump  of  spruce,  when  ye  hove  in  sight.  I  didn't  mean 
to  show  up  at  all,  but  when  I  saw  ye  so  eager  by  this 
here  tombstone,  I  was  kind  o'  curious  to  know  what  yer 
game  was,  and  crept  on  ye  unawares.  But,  I  say,  young 
ster,"  the  man  added,  suddenly  taking  a  step  forward, 
and  peering  eagerly  into  Geoffrey's  face,  "who  are  you?" 

The  rough  fellow  had  actually  grown  pale,  and  his 
breath  came  in  gasps  through  his  tightly  locked  teeth. 

"I  am  an  Eastern  man,"  answered  Geoffrey,  evasively. 

"Is — is  your  name  Geoffrey?"  the  man  demanded,  in  a 
hoarse  whisper. 

"Yes." 

"  Ha  !    Geoffrey  Dale  ?" 

"Yes." 

u  Great  Christopher  !  I — I  thought  so.  Something 
about  yer  sent  a  chill  over  me  the  minute  I  laid  eyes  on 
ye,"  said  the  man,  trembling  and  terribly  agitated.  ""Boy 
— boy,"  he  continued,  in  a  tone  of  fear,  "how  on  earth 
came  ye  and  me  to  turn  up  together  here,  of  all  places  in 
the  world  ?" 

Geoffrey  was  amazed  at  his  words. 

Evidently  the  man  knew  something  about  him,  and 
with  that  knowledge  there  was  connected  some  incident 
that  caused  him  personal  fear. 

Instantly  the  young  man's  mind  reverted  to  the  condi 
tion  in  which  Mr.  Huntress  had  first  found  him — a  poor 
abandoned  imbecile.  Had  this  rough  creature  known  of 
that,  or  had  anything  to  do  with  it? 

His  next  words  enlightened  him  somewhat. 

"You're  all  right,  too,  in  the  upper  story,  and  ye  can 
talk,"  he  muttered.  "  Where  ye  been  all  these  years?" 

"'All  these  years,'  How  many  years?"  queried 
Geoffrey,  with  a  rapidly  beating  heart. 

"It's  eight  years  ago,  last  spring,  since  I  set  eyes  on 
ye,  and  little  thought  I  should  ever  see  you  again  ;  never 
with  that  look  on  yer  face.  Where  ye  been,  I  say  ?" 

"Eight  years  ago,  last  spring,"  began  Geoffrey, 
gravely,  while  ha  closoly  watched  every  expression  on 
his  companion's  countenance,  "  I  was  one  day  wander 
ing,  a  poor,  demented  boy,  in  the  streets  of  Now  York 
city.  My  strange  appearance  and  actions  attracted  a 
mob  of  urchins,  who  began  to  make  sport  of  me.  They 
were  in  tho  midst  of  their  cruelty  when  a  carriage 


162  A  THRILLING  STORY. 

stopped  near  me,  and  a  beautiful  little  girl  beckoned  to 
me,  at  the  same  time  opening  the  door  of  the  carriage.  I 
darted  away  from  my  tormentors,  sprang  in  beside  her, 
and  the  next  moment  was  driven  away  in  safety,  much 
to  the  rage  of  the  boys.  The  girl's  father  took  an  interest 
in  me,  consulted  a  physician,  who  made  an  examination 
of  my  case,  and  reported  that  my  demented  state  had  been 
caused  by  a  heavy  blow  on  the  head  several  years 
before." 

Geoffrey  saw  the  man  shudder,  as  he  made  this  state 
ment,  while  a  low  exclamation  of  pain  or  fear  escaped 
him,  and  a  dim  suspicion  began  to  dawn  on  his 
mind. 

il  It  was  found,"  he  resumed,  still  watching  the  man, 
"that  my  skull  had  been  fractured,  and  that  a  portion  of 
the  bone  was  pressing  on  my  brain,  which  caused  tem 
porary  paralysis,  and  made  me  an  imbecile." 

Another  shudder,  more  violent  than  the  other,  strength 
ened  his  suspicion. 

"This  physician  and  another,1' he  went  on,  "believed 
that  an  operation  might  be  performed  which  would  im 
prove  my  condition,  if  it  did  not  fully  restore  me  to  my 
right  mind.  Mr.  Huntress,  the  man  who  had  taken  me 
under  his  protection,  authorized  the  doctors  to  undertake 
the  operation.  They  did  so — it  was  successful,  and  I  was 
restored." 

"Heaven  be  praised  !"  ejaculated  his  listener,  heartily 
but  tremulously.  "I  haven't  that  quite  so  heavy  on  my 
conscience  any  longer." 

Geoffrey  started,  and  bis  face  brightened. 

He  was  gaining  light,    ittle  by  little. 

"The  first  words  that  1  uttered  on  coming  to  myself," 
he  continued,  "were  something  about  a  woman  named — 
Margery " 

At  the  sound  of  that  name,  the  man  before  him 
bounded  from  his  feet  as  if  he  had  been  shot. 

"Margery  !"  he  repeated,  in  an  agonized  voice,  his  face 
twitching,  his  hands  clenching  themselves  convulsively, 
•while  his  eyes  rolled  in  every  direction,  a  look  of  wildest 
fear  in  them.  "Do  you  remember  Margery  !" 

He  leaned  breathlessly  toward  the  young  man,  while 
he  awaited  his  answer  with  trembling  eagerness. 

"I  remember  only  this — and  it  is  only  a  confused  re 
membrance,  too,"  Geoffrey  replied,  "that  some  one  by 
that  name  was  kind  and  good  to  me — that  she  was  called 
Margery,  and  I  loved  he1"  I  have  a  dim  recollection  that 


A  THRILLIXQ  STOUT.  163 

something    happened     to    her — that    she    was     hurt    cr 

struck ' 

On  hearing  this,  the  man  stretched  out  his  hand  with  a 
quick,  appealing  gesture. 

"Don't — don't,''  he  pleaded,  hoarsely.  "Do — do  you 
remember  anything — any  one  else?" 

"Yes,  I  recollect  that  there  was  a  man  named  Jack" — 
another  violent  start  confirmed  Geoffrey's  suspicious — 
"who  was  not  always  good  to  me,  and  whom  Ifeaic-d 
and — you  are  Jack  !" 

This  was  something  of  a  shot  at  random,  but  it  told 
instantly . 

The  man  sank  to  the  ground,  trembling  and  urnerved, 
his  face  blanched  with  fear,  while  great  beads  of  perspir 
ation  started  out  upon  his  forehead. 

"Good  Heaven!  lam  lost !  Havel  comeback  after 
all  these  years,  just  to  get  caught  like  a  rat  in  a.  crap?" 
he  cried,  brokenly.  "  But,"  he  went  on,  crouching  lower 
among  the  tall  grass  and  weeds,  "I  never  meant  jeany 
harm,  Master  Geoffrey.  It  was  the  drink  that  did  :t;  it 
crazed  my  brain,  and  I  never  really  knew  I  done  ye  such 
injury,  or  that  I'd  killed  the  girl  I  loved,  till  hours  tfter 
twas  all  over." 

Geoffrey  grew  pale  now,  at  this  revelation. 
It  was  far  more  than  he  dreamed  of  extorting  when  he 
had  charged  the  man  with  his  identity. 

He  was  so  excited  that  it  was  with  difficulty  he  could 
compose  himself  (sufficiently  to  speak.  But  after  a  mo 
ment  or  two  he  said  : 

"Well,  Jack,  since  it  is  you,  and  we  have  recognized 
each  other,  you  may  as  well  make  a  clean  breast  of  the 
•whole  story.  Owing  to  the  kindness  which  I  bad  re 
ceived,  the  injury  which  you  did  me  has  not  resulted  so 
seriously  as  it  might  have  done ;  but  poor  Margery  !" 

"Boy — boy — ye  will  drive  me  crazy  if  ye  talk  like 
that,"  Jack  cried,  in  a  voice  of  horror.  "I  tell  ye,  I  loved 
the  girl,  and  I'd  never  have  lifted  my  hand  agin  her — I'd 
have  cut  it  off  first,  though  we  didn't  always  agree — but 
for  the  drink  ;  and  if  I  could  only  look  into  her  good  face 
once  more,  and  hear  her  say,  'Jack,  I  forgive  ye!'  I'd 
be  willin'  to  lay  down  in  the  grave  beside  her,  though 
Heaven  knows  I've  never  even  seen  the  spot  where  she's 
buried." 

Great  sobs  choked  the  man's  utterance,  while  tears 
rolled  over  his  weather-beaten  cheeks  and  dropped  upon 
the  ground. 


164  A  THRILLING  STORY. 

Geoffrey  pitied  him  sincerely,  while  at  the  same  time  a 
feeling  of  horror  crept  ov<>r  him  as  he  began  to  realize 
that  the  mmi  had  been  making  a  confession  of  murder. 

Had  lie  killed  Margery,  and  attempted  his  life  also? 
And  was  that  the  secret  of  his  having  been  abandoned  in 
the  great  city  of  Mew  York? 

He  was  burning  with  eagerness  to  learn  all  the  truth. 
"I  do  not  \visli  to  pain  you,  Jack,"  he  said,  "but  1  want 
you  to  tell  me  all  thero  is  to  tell.     Begin  at  the  beginning, 
here  in  this   peaceful  spot,  where  no  one  will  come  to  dis 
turb  us,  and  ease  your  conscience  of  its  burden.1' 

Jack  looked  up  quickly  as  he  referred  to  that  sacred 
inclosure. 

"How  came  ye  to  know  where  to  find  yer  mother's 
grave  ?"  he  asked. 

Geoffrey's  h^art  bounded  within  him  at  this  question. 
"Annie"    had  been    his    mother,  then.     It  was    a   great 
thing  to  have  that  point  settled,  and  he  Celt  sure  now  that 
the  rest  would  all  be  explained. 

"Never  mind  that  just  now,  Jack,"  he  replied,  with 
what  calmness  lie  could  assume;  "when  you  have  told 
me  all  your  story  I  will  answer  any  question  you  may 
ask." 

"Ye'll  not  give  me  over  to  the  officers,  lad?"  the  man 
plended,  pitifully. 

"'No,  jack,  you  need  have  no  fear  of  me;  as  far  as  I 
am  concerned,  ymi  may  go  free  for  the  rest  of  your  life  ;  if 
you  have  wronged  any  one  else,  you  will  have  to  settle 
that  with  your  own  conscience.  All  I  nsk  of.  you  is  to 
tell  me  the  iiislory  of  my  early  life,  and  what  you  know 
regarding  my  father  and  mother." 

''Thank  ye.  Master  Geoffrey,"  returned  Jack,  humbly. 
"I  don't  deserve  that  ye  should  be  so  considerate.  I've 
had  to  skulk  and  hide  for  more'n  twenty  years,  and 
though  ther*1  ain't  much  in  th«  world  that.  1  care  to  live 
for,  yet  a  feller  don't  exactly  like  the  idee  of  bein' put 
out,  of  it  afore  his  time.  I'll  tell  ye  all  I  know  about  yer- 
self  and  your  folks,  and  welcome.'' 

"Come  over  to  yonder  lotr  and  let  us  sit  down," 
Geoffrey  snid.  indicating  a  fallen  tree,  but  he  was  very 
white,  and  felt  weak  and  trembling  as  he  moved  toward 
it. 

At  last  he  believed  the  mystery  of  his  life  was  to  be 
revealed . 

"T  came  here  to  work  in  thf  mines  about  a  year  afore 
Captain  Dale — that's  your  dad — bought  his  claim,"  Jack 


A  THRILLING  STORY.  165 

began,  after  they  were  seated.  "He  bought  out  old 
Waters  all  of  a  sudden,  and,  about  a  fortnight  after,  he 
brought  the  prettiest  little  woman  I  ever  set  eyes  on  to 

live  in  that  house  yonder " 

"His  wife?"  eagerly  queried  Geoffrey. 
"Of  course,  lad — leastwise  he  said  she  was,  and  she 
was  called  Mrs.  Dale  ;  and  if  ever  a  man  set  his  life  by  a 
woman,  the  captain  was  that  one.  He  dressed  her  like  a 
doll,  and  wouldn't  let  her  do  a  thing  except  make  little 
fancy  knicknacks,  and  was  forever  pettin'  and  makin' 
of  her  as  if  she  was  a  child.  Wai,  they  kep'  two  maids 
• — at  least  after  a  while — one  in  the  kitchen  and  one  to 
wait  on  Mrs.  Dale,  who  was  kind  of  ailin'.  Margery 
Brown  was  the  waitin'  maid,  and  she  and  me  had  been 
keepin'  company  for  quite  a  while,  and  it  was  agreed 
between  us  that  we'd  marry  afore  long  and  try  our  luck 
together  in  California,  for  I'd  scraped  together  a  snug 
little  sum  and  was  tired  of  mine's.  But  after  she  went 
to  the  cap's  house  she  began  to  put  me  off — she  grew  so 
fond  of  his  wife  that  she  wouldn't  hear  a  word  about 
marryin'  and  leavin'  her.  At  the  end  of  a  year  ye  were 
born — a  cute  little  nine-pounder  ye  was,  too,  and  a 
prouder  man  ye  never  see  than  the  captain  \vas  after  ye 
came.  But  it  didn't  last  long,  for  j-er  mother  began  to 
fail  afore  ye  were  a  month  old,  and  in  another  week  or 
t\vn  she  was  dead. 

"It  just  broke  the  captain's  heart.  He  seemed  half 
crazed,  didn't  pay  any  heed  to  his  business,  and  finally 
said  he  couldn't  stay  here  where  everything  kept  his 
mind  stirred  up  with  the  past.  He  told  Margery  he  was 
goin'  to  break  up,  only  he  didn't  know  what  he  should 
do  with  you,  for  he  hadn't  any  place  or  any  folks  to  take 
you  to. 

"I  thought  my  time  to  speak  up  had  come  then,  and  I 
told  Margery  she  must  take  me  then  or  nevpr,  and  if  the 
captain  were  will  in'  we'd  take  the  baby  alone:  with  ra, 
until  he  could  do  better  by  it.  This  pleased  her,  and  she 
said  she'd  speak  to  the  master  about  it.  He  was  clad 
enough  to  let  ye  come  with  us,  for  he  knew  my  girl  loved 
ye  and  would  take  better  care  of  ye  than  any  stranger. 
He  said  he'd  pay  well  for  it  until  ye  were  old  enough  to 
go  to  school,  whon  he'd  take  you  to  some  good  one  to 
begin  yer  edication. 

"Well,  Margery  and  I  were  married,  and  went  to  Cali 
fornia  to  live  on  a  small  farm  I'd  leased,  just  out  of 
Frisco,  which  I  worked  part  of  the  time  and  let  out  the 


166  A  THRILLING  STORY. 

rest,  at  odd  jobs,  to  get  a  little  ready  money.  The 
shipped  all  his  fine  furniture  off  somewhere  to  be  sold, 
shut  up  the  house  yonder,  and  left  for  parts  unknown, 
though  for  the  first  two  years  he  came  every  six  months 
to  see  how  his  boy  was  gettin'  on.  After  that  he  didn't 
come  so  often,  though  he  sent  money  regular. 

"Ye  were  the  smartest  little  chap  I  ever  did  see.  Mar 
gery  couldn't  have  loved  ye  any  better  if  ye'd  been  her 
own,  and  she  made  more  on  ye  than  I  relished,  and  1  got 
jealous  sometimes.  We  got  on  finely  for  three  years,  then 
hard  times  came,  the  crops  didn't  turn  out  good,  odd 
jobs  gave  out,  and  I  la;y  idle  for  weeks  at  a  time.  I 
wasn't  long  gettin'  into  bad  company  those  times,  and  I 
came  home  wild  with  drink  sometimes,  and  Margery 
would  cry  and  beg  me  to  mend  my  ways.  But!  didn't; 
and  at  last  she  got  riled,  and  threatened  to  give  me  the 
slip,  which  only  made  me  wicked  and  sullen. 

"One  night  I  came  home  worse  than  ever — Heaven  for 
give  me  !  I'd  been  at  the  bottle  all  day  long,  and  the 
very  OM  Bo>  had  got  into  me.  I  staggered  into  the  house 
ugly  enough  for  anything.  Margery  had  the  table  all 
laid,  the  kettle  was  steaming  in  on  the  stove,  and  she  was 
settin'  with  yerself  in  her  arms — ye  were  about  five  then 
— laughin'  and  playin'  with  ye  as  happy  as  a  cat  with  one 
kitten.  The  sight  angerod  me  somehow;  I  couldn't  get 
reconciled  that  we'd  no  tots  of  our  own,  and  I  gave  ye  a 
cuff  on  the  ear  with  an  oeth. 

"Margery  sprang  up,  as  mad  as  a  hornet,  and  shoved 
ye  behind  her. 

'"Let  the  child  alone,  you  sot !'  she  said. 

'"I'll  sot  ye  !'  I  yelled,  and  pushed  her  roughly  into  a 
chair  by  the  stove. 

"This  roused  all  yer  bad  blood,  small  as  ye  were.  Ya 
flew  at  me,  peltin'  me  with  yer  little  fists  that  couldn't 
have  hurt  a  flea.  Ye  called  me  'a  bad,  wicked  man,' 
ordered  me  to  'let  Marerery  alone,  or  ye'd  tell ' 

"Ye  never  finished  that  sentence,  for  every  word  had 
put  me  in  a  worse  rage,  and  I  grabbed  a  stick  of  wood 
from  the  hearth,  flung  it  at  ve,  and  ye  dropped  without  a 
word,  for  it  hit  ye  square  in  the  head. 

"My  girl  gave  a  shriek  I'll  never  forget. 

'"Oh,  ye  drunken  wretch  !'  she  cried.  'I'll  hate  ye  all 
my  life  if  ye've  killed  my  darlinV 

"She  gave  me  a  push  and  sprang  toward  ye,  but  she 
never  reached  ye,  for  I  grabbed  her  by  the  throat — 
frightened  at  what  I'd  already  done,  and  the  heat  of  the 


JACK'S  STORY  CONTINUED.  167 

room  had  made  a  madman  of  mo — and  choked  her  till 
she  grew  purple  in  the  face,  and  then  threw  her  from 
me.  She  stumbled,  caught  her  foot  in  a  rug,  and  fell.  I 
laughed  as  she  went  over.  Her  head  hit  on  the  sharp 
corner  of  the  stove  with  a  sound  I'll  never  forget  till  I 
die,  and  then  she,  too,  lay  still  and  white  on  the  floor 
afore  me." 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 
JACK'S  STORY  CONTINUED. 

When  the  man  had  reached  the  part  of  his  story  re 
corded  in  the  preceding  chapter,  he  was  greatly  agitated 
for  several  moments,  as  if  the  memory  of  that  dreadful 
time  was  even  now,  after  the  lapse  of  more  than  twenty 
year,  more  than  he  could  bear,  while  Geoffrey,  too,  felt 
as  if  he  ^ould  hardly  sit  there  and  listen  to  the  remainder 
of  the  fearful  tale. 

'•The  horror  of  it  all  sobered  me  a'most  as  quick  as  if 
I'd  been  struck  by  lightning,"  Jack  at  length  resumed, 
pulling  himself  together  with  an  effort.  "I  don't  know 
how  long  I  stood  there,  lookin'  down  on  them  two  that  I 
believed  I'd  sent  out  o'  world  without  a  moment's  warn 
ing.  Then  I  slunk  out  o'  the  house,  hardly  knowin'  what 
I  did,  and  went  and  hid  myself  in  the  barn.  I  must  have 
gone  to  sleep,  or  fell  into  a  stupor  from  the  liquor  I'd 
drank,  for  I  didn't  know  anything  more  till  the  roosters 
set  up  such  a  crowing  that  nobody  could  have  slept.  I 
never  could  tell  ye  what  the  horror  of  that  wakin'  was, 
sir,  and  it's  a'most  like  livin'  it  over  again  to  tell  it," 
groaned  the  man,  with  a  shudder.  "It  was  only  about 
two  in  the  mornin',  but  the  moon  was  shinin',  and  it 
•was  most  as  light  as  day.  I  crept  out  into  the  yard  and 
listened  ;  there  wasn't  a  sound  except  those  roosters,  and 
every  crow  sounded  like  a  knell  o'  doom  in  my  ears,  and 
made  my  flesh  creep  with  fear. 

"  T  stole  up  to  the  house  and  looked  in  at  the  kitchen 
•window.  I  couldn't  help  it — something  drove  me  to  it, 
thouerh  I  shivered  at  every  step.  There  tlu-y  Iny,  just  as 
they  Ml.  with  the  light  still  burnin',  and  pvorvt^ing  just 
as  I'd  left  it.  Bur,  while  I  stood  there  the  little  shaver 
stirred  and  moaned,  and  my  heart  lenpod  straight  into 
my  throat,  near  about  chokin'  me  at  the  sight.  It  gave 
me  hope — p'raps  after  all  I  hadn't  murdered  'em,  and 


168  JACK'S  STORY  CONTINUED. 

they  might  be  brought  to.  I  rushed  in,  took  the  boy  up, 
and  laid  him  on  the  bed  in  the  bedroom  just  off  the 
kitchen.  He  moaned  all  the  time,  till  I  got  a  wet  cloth 
and  put  it  on  his  head,  when  he  grew  o,uiet  and  dropped 
off  into  a  stupor  again.  Then  I  went  to  her — my  girl — 
Margery — the  woman  I'd  sworn  to  love  and  take  care  of 
till  I  died,  and  who  had  done  me  nothin'  but  kindness 
ever  since  we  first  met. 

"I  lifted  her  up.  but  she  hung  limp  and  lifeless  over  my 
arm.  I  laid  her  head  on  my  breast  and  begged  her  to 
come  back  to  me,  to  call  me  her  Jack  once  more,  and  say 
she'd  forgive  me,  and  I'd  never  lift  my  hand  ag'in  her 
agMn,  nor  touch  another  dron  as  long  as  I  lived.  But 
'twan't  no  use.  She  lay  there  quiet  and  peaceful  enough, 
but  there  was  that  dreadful  purple  mark  and  cut  on  her 
forehead  where  it  had  hit  the  stove.  She  wa'n't  cold  or 
stiff  as  I  thought  dead  people  always  were,  but  there 
wa'n't  no  sign  of  life  about  her  either  and  I  laid  her 
down  again,  my  heart  a-breakin',  and  feelin'  like  another 
Cain,  only  worse,  for  I'd  killed  a  woman,  and  she  my 
own  wife  ! 

"Then  I  began  to  think  what  would  happen  if  I  was 
found  there,  and  I  grew  frightened.  I  couldn't  makeup 
my  mind  to  stay  and  confess  what  I'd  done,  and  hang 
like  a  dog  for  it,  so  I  got  together  a  few  things  and  all  the 
money  that  Margery  had  in  her  own  little  box,  and  the 
boy's  safe,  and  Avrappin'  him  in  a  shawl— for  I  daren't 
leave  him  while  there  was  a  breath  o'  life  in  him  and  a 
chance  of  savin'  him — •!  stole  out  of  the  house,  without 
even  darin'  to  give  my  girl  a  kiss  after  the  ill  I'd  done 
her.  ard  made  for  a  station  a  mile  or  more  away. 

"I  had  an  awful  time  of  it,  for  the  boy  moaned  every 
minute  of  the  time  ;  but  I  told  people  on  the  cars  that 
he'd  had  a  fall  and  I  was  takin'  him  to  a  doctor.  I  trav 
eled  all  day  in  the  fastest  trains,  and  got  to  a  town  just 
about  dusk.  H>re  I  called  a  doctor  to  the  boy.  He 
doubted  if  he  could  save  him  ;  but  he  pulled  through  after 
five  weeks  of  terrible  fever  and  pain,  though  when  he 
got  up  ngain,  lookin'  more  like  a  spirit  than  l*ke  flpsh 
Bnd  blood,  he  didn't  know  me  or  remember  anything  that 
bad  happened.  The  doctor  said  he  was  a  fool,  and  always 
would  be  one." 

Tt  seemed  very  strange  to  Geoffrey  to  be  sitting  there 
in  his  right  mind  and  listening  to  this  dreadful  svory 
about  himself.  It  seemed  almost  like  a  case  of  dual  exist 
ence. 


J ICE'S  STORY  CONTINUED.  169 

*  As  soon  as  he  was  well  enough,"  Jack  went  on,  "I  felt 
that  we  ought  to  be  gettiii'  out  of  that  place ;  it  was  too 
near  home  to  be  safe,  and  the  police  were  liable  to  get  on 
my  track  any  day.  So  I  began  my  roamin'.  First  we 
•went  to  Texas,  where  I  got  work  on  a  cattle  and  sheep 
ranch.  After  a  time  I  scraped  together  a  little  money, 
and  started  out  to  raise  sheep  for  myself.  It  wa'n't  easy 
t1)  be  with  any  one,  lest  somebody  should  come  along  who 
had  heard  about  what  I'd  done,  and  I  might  get  snapped 
up.  The  boy  and  me  lived  in  a  cabin  by  ourselves,  away 
from  everybody  else,  but  I  never  let  him  out  of  my  sight, 
and  I  grew  that  fond  of  him  I  would  have  died  rather 
than  let  harm  come  to  him,  and  I'd  vowed  I'd  do  the  best 
1  could  by  him  as  long  as  I  lived,  and  get  together  some- 
tiling  handsome  to  leave  him,  to  make  up  as  far  as  I  could 
for  the  deadly  wrong  I'd  done  him.  As  soon  as  I  could 
get  enough  together,  I  meant  to  take  him  to  some  place 
where  they  care  for  them  that  have  lost  their  mind. 

"My  eheep  turned  out  wonderful ;  in  five  years  money 
began  to  come  in  right  fast,  and  I  might  have  kep'  oil 
an'  been  a  rich  man  by  this  time,  if  it  hadn't  been  that  a 
man  I  knew  came  down  that  way  about  that  time.  I  saw 
him  first  at  the  village,  where  I  went  to  lay  in  a  stock  of 
provisions.  He  didn't  see  me,  but  I  heard  him  say  he  was 
goin'  to  buy  out  a  cattle  ranch  ten  miles  away,  and  that 
was  enough  to  give  me  a  scare  and  unsettle  me.  1  feared 
I'd  be  recognized  and  seized  as  the  murderer  of  my  girl, 
and  though  life  wa'n't  much  to  me  with  the  heavy  con 
science  and  the  grief  I  had  to  carry  around  with  me  all 
the  time,  j'et,  for  the  boy's  sake,  I  was  bound  to  stick  to 
it  as  long  as  I  could — there  was  nobody  else  to  take  care 
of  him,  and  I  knew  he'd  fare  hard  without  me. 

"The  man  who  owned  the  ranch  next  to  mine  had 
offered  to  buy  me  out  the  year  before,  so  I  went  to  him 
and  told  him  I'd  made  up  my  mind  to  go  North  and  see  if 
the  doctors  couldn't  do  something  for  the  boy,  and  if  he'd 
taka  everything  off  my  hands  I'd  sell  out  cheap. 

"  He  took  me  up  quick  as  a  wink,  and  in  less  than  a 
week  the  money  was  in  my  pocket  and  the  boy  and  me 
were  on  our  way  to  New  York.  I  bought  a  email  farm 
just  across  the  river  in  New  Jersey.  There  was  a  good 
house  and  barn  on  it,  and  I  stocked  it  well,  hired  a  good 
strong  woman  to  do  the  inside  work  and  a  man  to  help 
me  outside,  and  then  settled  down  to  a  quiet  life  ;  for  I 
didn't  believe  anybody  would  think  of  lookin'  for  me 
there. 


170  JACK'S  STORY  CONTINUED. 

"1  took  the  name  of  '.John  Landers,'  and  tried  to  mako 
the  boy  call  himself  'George  Landers' ;  but  he  didn't 
know  enough  to  learn  it,  and  seemed  to  have  forgotten 
how  to  talk  at  all ;  so  I  hadn't  much  to  fear  from  his  let- 
tin'  anything  out.  We  lived  here  for  almost  five  years 
more,  and  I  got  ahead  a  little  every  season.  But,  sir,  the 
horror  of  that  dreadful  deed  never  left  me  for  a  minute. 
My  Margery's  dead  face  was  always  before  me,  and  my 
heart  heavy  with  its  load  of  guilt  and  loneliness.  If  ever 
a  man  paid  for  an  evil  deed  in  torment,  I  paid  for  mine  a 
hundred  times  over. 

"  But  the  worst  of  my  troubles  was  yet  to  come.  The 
world's  a  small  place  to  hide  in  when  a  man  has  commit 
ted  a  crime.  I  went  to  town  one  day  on  business,  and 
stepped  into  the  post-office — which  was  in  the  same 
buildin'  with  the  railway  station — to  send  a  letter  for  the 
woman  at  home,  when  I  heard  two  men  talking  in  a  low 
tone  of  voice,  and  one  of  them  spoke  the  name  of  Jack 
Henly. 

"  My  blood  ran  cold  in  a  minute.  My  back  was  to 
them,  for  I  was  payin'  for  the  postage  on  the  letter,  and 
they  hadn't  seemed  to  notice  me.  I  didn't  hurry,  fright 
ened  as  I  felt,  but  took  my  own  time  and  listened. 

"  It  was  me  they  were  after,  sure  enough  ;  they  had 
tracked  me  all  the  way  from  Texas  to  that  place,  but, 
somehow,  couldn't  get  any  farther.  Nobody  had  heard  of 
a  man  named  Jack  Henly,  and  no  one  answered  to  their 
description.  It  was  no  wonder,  for  I  \vas  greatly  changed, 
looking  like  an  old  man,  for  my  grief  had  whitened  my 
hair,  wrinkled  my  face,  and  bent  my  form.  I  walked 
straight  by  them  on  goin'  out  of  the  office,  but  they  never 
suspected  me.  I'd  got  another  scare,  though,  that  I 
couldn't  get  over,  and  made  up  my  mind  that  I'd  quit  the 
country  So  I  sold  off  my  stock,  drew  what  money  I'd 
laid  by  in  the  bank — my  farm  I  couldn't  sell  at  such  short 
notice — shut  up  my  huose,  and,  takin'  the  boy,  went  to 
New  York,  intendin'  to  take  passage  in  a  vessel  goin'  to 
Australia,  where  I  meant  to  go  to  sheep  raisin'  again, 
since  I  had  done  so  well  in  Texas,  while  I  thought  I 
needn't  fear  any  man  in  that  country.  I  took  passage, 
and  bought  a  comfortable  outfit  for  both  of  us,  but  the 
vessel  wan't  to  sail  for  a  week,  so  I  kep'  very  quiet  in  a 
room  I'd  hired  on  a  by-street,  fearin'  those  men  might 
still  be  lookin'  me  up. 

"But  I  let  the  boy  play  out,  for  he  pined  in  the  house, 
while  I  sat  by  a  window  to  watch  that  he  did  not  get  out 


JACK'S  STORY  CONTINUED.  171 

of  sight.  Wall,  one  day  I  must  have  fallen  asleep,  for  I 
woice  with  a  start,  ami  lookiii'  out,  couldn't  see  hide  nor 
hair  of  the  boy.  I  went  to  the  door,  but  he  wasn't  no 
where  in  sight.  I  started  out  to  find  him,  never  thinkin' 
of  danger  then.  I  walked  for  nours,  askin'  people  about 
him,  but  nobody  could  tell  me  anything  of  him. 

"Three  days  I  kep'  this  up,  until  I  nigh  about  went 
crazy,  and  wore  myself  out  with  loss  or  sleep,  travelin' 
about,  and  with  my  grief  for  the  little  fellow. 

"  On  t.he  last  day  before  we  were  to  sail,  while  I  was 
rovin'  about  the  streets  in  seaich  of  him,  I  ran  against 
those  two  men  again — the  ones  who  were  lookin'  for  me. 
I  knew  by  their  quick,  keen  glances  at  me  that  they  had 
got  a  suspicion  I  might  be  their  man,  and  I  got  out  of 
thnir  way  in  a  hurry.  I  was  discouraged  about  fiudin' 
the  boy.  I  didn't  dare  to  look  for  him  any  more.  I  was 
afraid  to  go  to  the  police  about  nim,  lest  they  had  been 
notified  to  be  on  the  lookout,  and  should  snap  me  up  ;  so, 
half  crazed  with  tear  and  grief,  I  staggered  on  board  the 
vessel  I  was  to  sail  in,  crawled  into  my  berth,  and  lay 
there  till  we  were  well  out  to  sea. 

"Wall,  sir,  my  heart  was  broke.  I  thought  I  never 
could  hold  up  my  head  again,  and  I  wouldn't  have  turned 
over  my  hand  to  have  saved  myself  from  goin'  to  the 
bottom  ;  for  I  got  to  lovin'  that  poor  little  chap  with  my 
whole  soul,  and  I  didn't  know  how  to  get  on  without  him. 

"But  we  had  a  good  passage.  I  was  hale  and  hearty 
when  we  landed,  and  seemed  likely  to  live  my  lonely  life 
for  many  a  year.  I  went  into  the  interior,  bought  a  sheep 
ranch,  and  set  myself  to  do  the  work  of  three  men; 
nothin'  else  would  ease  the  pain  and  worry  that  was 
oatin'  my  heart  out. 

"Well,  sir,  to  make  a  long  story  short,  I've  been  on 
that  sheep  ranch  ever  since,  until  about  six  months  ago, 
when  a  longin'  seized  me  to  come  home  and  take  a  last 
look  at  my  own  land.  I've  grown  to  be  a  well-to-do 
farmer  ;  I've  plenty  of  money,  and  no  one  to  spend  it  on 
or  leave  it  to,  unless  I  give  it  to  you,  Master  Geoffrey, 
now  that  I  have  found  you.  Heaven  be  praised  for  that, 
and  that  you've  got  your  mind  back  !  I've  been  to  New 
Jersey,  found  my  place  there  neglected  and  all  out  of 
repair,  but  still  a  thrifty  little  farm  if  'twas  well  taken 
care  of.  I've  been  to  Texas  for  a  look  at  my  old  ranch 
there.  The  man  that  bought  it  got  rich,  sold  out,  and 
then  went  North  to  live  on  his  money.  Then  I  came  on 
here  to  see  the  place  where  I  first  found  my  Margery, 


172  JACK'S  STOKY  CONTINUED. 

and  it  was  nigh  this  very  spot — just  there  by  that  clump 
of  spruce,  wnere  I  was  hid  when  you  came — that  we 
plighted  our  troth.  Ah  !  my  gill  !  my  girl  !" 

The  poor  man  broke  down  completely  here,  and  sobbed 
like  a  child,  and  Geoffrey's  eyes  were  full  of  tears,  loo, 
as  he  witnessed  his  emotion  and  realized  what  he  must 
have  suffered  during  the  checkered  life  that  he  had 
led. 

He  had  been  deeply  touched  by  the  faithfulness  and  de 
votion  which  he  had  exhibited  in  his  care  of  him  during 
all  those  years  while  he  was  such  a  helpless  burden, 
mentally,  on  his  hands. 

He  saw  that  the  man  was  naturally  honorable  and  kind- 
hearted,  and  that  he  would  never  have  been  guilty  of  the 
crime  which  he  had  just  confessed,  but  for  the  misfor 
tunes  that  led  him  into  evil  company  and  to  the  use  of 
intoxicating  drinks. 

"I'm  a  broken-down  old  man,  sir,"  Jack  said,  after 
struggling  hard  for  self-control,  "or  I  never  should  blub 
ber  like  this;  but  this  place  brings  back  those  old  days 
when  my  conscience  was  free — when  life  was  bright  and 
full  of  hope  before  me  and  my  girl,  and  it  seems  more'n 
I  can  bear.  It's  wonderful,  though,  that  I  should  run 
across  ye  here!  Oh,  sir,  I  did  ye  a  woeful  wrong,  in  my 
anger  and  jealous  fit,  Avhen  ye  were  a  child.  I've  no 
right  to  expect  it,  but  'twould  comfort  my  poor  old  heart 
more'n  I  could  tell  ye,  if  I  could  hear  ye  say  ye  don't  lay- 
it  up  ag'in  me." 

Geoffrey  turned  frankly  toward  the  humble  suppliant 
beside  him. 

"I  do  not,  Jack,"  he  said,  heartily  ;  "you  were  the  vic 
tim  of  drink,  and  were  hardly  accountable  for  the  deeds 
of  that  night ;  you  condemn  yourself  more  than  you 
really  deserve,  for  if  you  have  told  me  everything  just  as 
it  occurred,  your  wife  did  not  die  by  your  hand — her 
death  was  caused  by  an  accident." 

The  man  shook  his  head  sadly. 

"No,  no,"  he  said;  "I  can't  get  it  off  my  conscience 
that  it  was  murder :  for  if  I  hadn't  laid  hands  on  her  she 
might  have  been  living  to-day." 

"Still  it  was  not  willful  or  premeditated,"  Geoffrey  per 
sisted.  "However,"  he  added,  "I  freely  forgive  you  for 
your  share  in  my  misfortune,  if  that  will  be  any  comfort 
to  you." 

"Thank  ye,  sir;  thank  ye;  and  if  there  is  a,  God,  I 
thank  Him,  too,  that  I've  been  allowed  to  set  eyes  on  ye 


JACK'S  STORY  CONTINUED.  173 

once  more,  and   in  yer  right  mind,  too,"  was  the  fervent 
response. 

"I  reckon,"  he  continued,  after  a  moment  of  thought, 
"it  might  be  called  tlie  work  of  Providence  that  I  lost  ye 
there  in  Mew  York,  for  if  ye'd  gone  with  me  to  Australia, 
I  doubt  that  ye'd  ever  been  curtd,  and  I'm  right  sure  ye'd 
never  been  the  gentleman  that  3  e  are.  I'd  thank  ye  to 
tell  me  about  the  good  man  that  befriended  ye.'' 

"I  will,  Jack,  piesently,  but  I  first  want  to  ask  you  a 
few  more  questions  about  the  past." 

"All  riglu,  sir:  anything  I  can  tell  ye,  ye  shall   know. 
"Well,  then,  I'd    like  you  to  detciibe  the  man  vho  was 
my  father,"  Geoflrey  said,  giavtly. 

Jack  turned  to  look  \\}  on  the  jci;rg  n  an  beside  him. 
"The  best  description  ye  could  get  of  him'd  be  to  go 
and  look  at  yers-elf  in  the  glass,1'  he  said,  studying 
Geoffrey's  face  and  form,  u  h  r  ye're  ae  nigh  like  bin>  afi 
another  man  could  be,  -when  1  first  taw  him  after  he 
brought  that  pretty  little  won  an  to  live  here.  He'd  been 
off  to  meet  her  somewhere,  and  he'd  shaved  off  all  his 
heavy  beard,  had  his  hair  trin.med  up  in  the  fashion,  and 
wore  a  dandy  suit  o1  clothes." 

"His  name  was  Dale,  you  say?  Are  you  sure  that  was 
his  true  name?"  the  youi  g  man  asked. 

"I  couldn't  take  my  oath  as  to  that,  sir,  but  everybody 
bore  knew  him  as  Captain  William  Dale,  though  1  don't 
know  how  he  came  to  be  a  captain.  She  used  to  call  him 
'Will,'  in  a  way  that  made  his  eyes  shine  enough  to  do  ye 
good." 

Geoffrey's  ej'es  lighted  at  this. 

It  was  evident  that  Captain  Dale  had  truly  loved  the 
girl  whom  hH  had  brought  there,  whether  she  had  been 
his  legal  wife  or  not. 

"Do  you  know  what  her  name  was  before  be  married 
ber?"  he  asked. 

"No,  sir  ;  that  is  one  of  the  things  I  can't  tell  ye  ;  even 
Margery  never  found  out  that.  They  was  both  very  shy 
of  talkin'  about  themselves  afore  folks,  anc  nobody  ever 
knew  where  they  came  from,  either." 

"Did  they  never  have  visitors — was  there  no  friend 
whoever  came  to  see  them  ?" 

"No,  sir;    and  they  didn't  seem  to  want  anybody  ;  she 

was  just  his  world,  and  he  her'n.     My  girl   used  to  tl  ink 

it  was   kind    of    strange,  though,  that  they  never  pot  ;  i  y 

letters;  but  she  never  did,  and  never  writ  any,  either." 

"Did   she   seem   happy?"  Geoffrey   asked,  in   a  hushed 


174  JACK'S  STORY  CONTINUED. 

tone,  as  if  this  was  ground  he  hardly  liked  to  trespass 
upon. 

"  As  chipper  as  a  bird,"  Jack  returned  ;  "and  she  could 
sing  like  one,  too.  Many's  the  night  the  boys  have  stolen 
to  yonder  house  to  listen  while  she  sang  and  played  to 
the  cap ;  he  had  a  pianer  sent  up  from  Santa  Fe  ;  and 
she  was  always  bright  and  smilin' ;  she  was  like  a  streak 
o'  sunshine  in  a  dark  place,  for  there  wasn't  anybody 
like  her  anywhere  about." 

Geoffrey  felt  his  heart  yearn  \vistfully  for  this  sweet 
and  gentle  woman,  who  had  been  his  mother,  and  who 
had  brightened  that  wild  and  dreary  place  with  her  pres 
ence  for  one  short  year. 

Still  the  mystery  regarding  his  father,  and  her  rela 
tions  to  him,  seemed  as  dark  as  ever. 

If  he  could  not  learn  whence  they  came,  it  would  be  im 
possible  to  trace  his  history  any  farther,  and  a  feeling  of 
depression  and  discouragement  began  to  settle  upon  him. 

It  seemed  as  if  those  two  lovers  had  hidden  themselves 
there,  cut  themselves  adrift  from  all  previous  associa 
tions,  and  then  lived  simply  for  and  in  each  other. 

"Did  Captain  Dale's  mine  here  pay  him  well?"  he 
asked. 

"No,  sir,  it  did  not;  and  that  is  something  that  always 
seemed  strange  to  me,"  Jack  said,  reflectively.  "He 
couldn't  much  more'n  paid  expenses  here,  but  he  never 
seemed  to  care,  and  I've  always  had  a  notion  that  be  had 
an  interest  in  other  mines." 

'^"hat  other  mines?"  Geoffrey  inquired,  eagerly. 

"I  couldn't  say,  sir:  he  was  very  close,  and  never 
talked  business  afore  his  help." 

"What  made  you  think  he  had  other  claims?" 

"Well,  after  the  first  month  or  two  he  used  to  be  away 
considerable — not  long  at  a  time  ;  but  he  went  often,  and 
was  always  so  chipper  when  he  came  back,  I  reasoned 
'twas  only  good  luck  could  make  him  so." 

"What  arrangements  did  he  make  with  you  when  he 
left  me  in  your  wife's  care?" 

"There  wa'n't  anv  bargain,"  Jack  said.  "Margery  was 
that  fond  of  ye  she'd  been  willin'  to  kep'  ye  for  nothin' 
rather  than  let  ye  go;  but  the  cap  was  always  generous 
— he  gave  her  two  hundred  dollars  to  start  with,  besides 
a  handsome  present  on  her  own  account,  for  what  she  did 
for  his  wife  while  she  lay  dyin'.  Then,  for  the  first  two 
years  he  came  once  in  six  months  to  see  ye,  and  always 
left  a  good  round  sum  for  ye — there  wa'n't  nothin'  mean 


GEOFFREY  VISITS  THE  SCENE  OF  THE  TRAGEDY.    175 

about  Captain  Dale — and  when  he  didn't  come  he  sent  it." 
"Did   he  never  mention   where    he    spent    his  time?'1 
Geoffrey  asked,  "  or  speak   of  ever  taking  me  away  with 
him?" 

"No,  sir,  never  a  word  ;  the  most  he  ever  said  was  that 
he  should  put  ye  to  some  school  as  soon  as  ye  were  old 
enough." 

"Did  he — did  he  appear  to  be  fond  of  me?"  Geoffrey  in 
quired,  hesitatingly,  a  hot  flush  rising  to  his  cheek. 

"That  he  were,  sir  ;  it  was  as  much  as  ever  he'd  let  ye 
out  of  his  arms  from  the  time  he  came  till  he  went, 
though  he  never  staid  very  long,  and  I've  seen  the  tears 
a-standin'  in  his  eyes  when  he  parted  from  ye." 
"How  long  before — my  accident  was  his  last  visit?" 
"It  must  have  been  more'n  a  year,  if  I  remember  right ; 
but  the  money  came  regular,  and  Margery  seemed  hap 
pier  when  he  didn't  come — she  was  always  afraid  he'd 
take  ye  away  from  her.  I've  often  wondered  what  he  did 
when  he  came  again  and  found  ye  gone — it  must  have 
been  a  mortal  blow  to  him,"  Jack  concluded,  and  then 
dropped  into  a  fit  of  musing. 


CHAPTER  xxvrn. 

GEOFFREY  VISITS  THE  SCENE  OF  THE  TRAGEDY. 

"Where  do  you  intend  to  go  from  here,  Jack  ?"  Geoffrey 
asked   at  length,  breaking  a  silence  of  several  minutes, 
during  which   both   had  been  busy  with  various  thoughts 
and  emotions. 

"To  California,  sir.  I'm  bound  to  have  a  last  look  at 
all  the  places  I've  ever  been  in,  though  it'll  be  a  sad  day 
that  lands  me  there.  My  poor  girl  and  I  saw  many 
happy  days  on  that  little  farm  just  out  of  San  Francisco. 
I  didn't  own  it,  we  only  hired  it,  for  we  hadn't  money 
enough  then  to  pay  for  a  home;  but  I'd  gladly  give  up 
every  dollar  I've  earned  since  if  I  could  only  have  my 
girl  back  again,"  Jack  concluded,  with  another  heart 
broken  sob. 

His  grief  and  remorse  were  painful  to  witness.  His 
face  was  almost  convulsed,  great  drops  came  out  upon 
his  forehead,  and  he  trembled  with  emotion. 

"I  believe  I  will  go  to  California  with  you,  Jack," 
Geoffrey  said,  after  a  season  of  thought.  M I  do  not  be- 


176    GEOFFREY  VISITS  THE  SCENE  OF  THE  TRAGEDY. 

lieve  it  will  be  exactly  safe  for  you  to  go  there  by  your, 
self,  to  visit  your  old  home.  Suspicion  might  be  aroused 
immediately,  and  you  would  be  liable  to  get  into  trouble; 
but  no  one  would  think  it  at  all  strange  if  I  should  return 
to  make  inquiries  regarding  my  old  nurse." 

"Wall,  but  everybody  knew  we  went  off  together," 
said  Jack. 

"Very  true  ;  but  if  unpleasant  questions  were  asked,  I 
could  explain  that  you  escaped  to  Australia,  while  I  was 
cared  for  by  friends  in  New  York  ;  all  of  which  would  be 
true,"  Geoffrey  responded. 

"Thank  ye,  sir;  ye're  kinder  to  me  than  I  deserve ; 
but  even  if  I  knew  they'd  snap  me  up,  I  reckon  I  should 
go.  I  can  never  rest  till  I  know  where  they've  laid  my 
girl,"  Jack  returned,  with  a  heavy  sigh. 

"You  shall,"  Geoffrey  answered,  "we  will  find  out  all 
there  is  to  know  ;  but  I  particuarly  wish  to  learn  if  my 
father  ever  visited  the  place  after  we  left.  If  he  did  he 
probably  left  some  address  so  that  information  could  be 
found,  in  case  any  trace  of  us  was  discovered." 

Jack  appeared  to  be  very  grateful  to  have  his  path  thus 
smoothed  for  him,  and  the  next  morning  the  two  men 
left  the  mining  village  and  proceeded  directly  to  San 
Francisco. 

Before  leaving,  however,  Geoffrey  had  cut  several  slips 
from  the  ivy  that  grew  all  about  his  mother's  grave,  and 
inclosing  them  wrapped  in  wet  paper,  in  a  small  tin  box, 
mailed  them  to  Gladys. 

"My  darling,"  he  wrote,  "if  you  can  coax  any  of  these 
to  live,  pray  do  so,  for  my  sake.  I  have  a  particular  rea 
son  for  making  the  request,  which  I  will  explain  when  I 
return,"  and  Gladys  had  three  of  them  nicely  rooted  be 
fore  she  returned  to  Brooklyn,  at  the  rnd  of  the  season. 

Geoffrey  and  his  companion  reached  the  small  town, 
near  which  Jack  Henly  had  once  lived,  and  only  a  few 
miles  from  San  Francisco,  about  noon  one  warm  August 
day. 

They  had  their  dinner,  and  rested  for  several  hours, 
then  when  the  day  grew  cooler,  Geoffrey  started  out  to 
alone  to  visit  Jack  Henly's  former  home,  and  to  try  to 
discover  the  gra.ve  of  his  wife. 

Tie  found  the  place  without  any  difficulty,  a  small  house 
and  barn  standing  in  a  lonely  location,  about  two  miles 
from  the  town,  while  there  were  only  one  or  two  other 
dwellings  in  sight.  There  was  no  sign  of  life  about  the 
place,  and  the  buildings  were  fast  falling  into  decay. 


'GEOFFREY  VISITS  TEE  SCENE  OF  THE  TRAGEDY.    177 

Weeds  and   vines  and   wild  flowers  grew  all  about  the 
yard,  and  everything  looked  desolate  and  forlorn. 

Geoffrey  shivered  as  he  stepped  up  to  a  window  and 
looked  into  that  small  kitchen,  and  recalled  the  dark 
deed  which  had  been  perpetrated  there. 

He  did  not  believe  the  place  had  ever  been  inhabited 
since;  it  had  a  look  of  having  been  shunned,  and  per 
haps  regarded  as  a  haunted  house.  He  wondered  how 
Margery  had  been  found,  and  what  measures  had  been 
taken  to  discover  the  author  of  the  crime. 

He  did  not  remain  there  long ;  it  was  not  an  attractive 
spot,  and  there  were  no  means  of  learning  anything  that 
he  wished  to  find  out. 

He  resolved  to  visit  some  of  the  neighbors,  and  try  to 
ascertain  what  had  been  done  with  Mrs.  Henly's  body, 
and  if  Captain  Dale  had  ever  visited  the  place  since  the 
tragedy  occurred. 

The  nearest  neighbor  was  at  least  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
away  ;  he  could  just  discern  the  roof  and  chimneys  over 
a  little  rise  of  ground  to  the  south. 

He  mounted  his  horse  again  and  rode  toward  it,  com 
ing,  in  a  few  minutes,  to  a  large  and  comfortable  farm 
house,  where  peace  and  plenty  seemed  to  reign. 

He  found  the  farmer  just  driving  up  his  cows  from 
pasture.  He  was  a  man  apparently  sixty  years  of  age, 
with  a  kind  and  genial  face,  quick  and  energetic  in  his 
movements  in  spite  of  his  there-score  years. 

Geoffrey  saluted  him  courteously,  introduced  himself, 
and  asked  if  he  could  spare  the  time  to  answer  a  few 
questions. 

The  man  called  a  boy  to  attend  to  his  cows,  then  in 
vited  Geoffrey  to  dismount  and  come  with  him  to  the 
wide,  pleasant  veranda,  where  they  could  converse  at 
their  leisure,  assuring  him  that  he  should  be  glad  to  give 
him  any  information  he  might  possess. 

Geoffrey  accepted  his  invitation,  and  then  entered  at 
once  upon  the  business  that  had  brought  him  there. 

"I  arn  in  this  locality  chiefly  to  ascertain  something  of 
the  people  who  once  occupied  that  house  over  yonder," 
he  said,  indicating  Jack  Henly's  deserred  dwelling,  "nnd 
thought  my  best  way  would  be  to  apply  to  some  one  liv 
ing  in  the  neighborhood." 

The  farmer's  face  fell  at  this.  Evidently  the  subject 
was  not  a  pleasant  one  to  him. 

"You  couldn't  have  come  to  a  better  place  to  find  out 
what  you  want  to  know,  sir,"  he  replied,  "for  I've  lived 


178    QEOtmEY  VISITS  THE  SCENE  OF  THE  TRAGEDY. 

here  for  the  last  thirty-five  years,  and  I  can  tell  you  all 
about  that  sad  story — at  least  all  that  anybody  here 
abouts  ever  knew  ;  though  it  isn't  a  cheerful  subject." 

"lam  very  fortunate,  then,  in  having  come  to  you," 
Geoffrey  said,  in  a  tone  of  satisfaction,  'ihen  glancing  at 
his  watch,  he  added  :  "I  find  it  is  later  than  I  thought, 
and  as  I  would  like  to  get  back  to  town  before  dark,  I 
will  ask  you  to  relate  in  your  own  way  all  that  you  know 
about  the  family,  and  I  will  restrain  all  questions  until 
you  get  through." 

"Well,  sir,"  began  the  farmer,  "the  Uenlys  came  here 
nigh  about  twenty-two  or  three  years  ego,  and  we  thought 
we  were  fortunate  in  having  such  thrifty  neighbors  as 
they  seemed  to  be.  There  were  only  three  of  them,  Jack 
and"  his  wife,  and  a  baby  only  a  few  months  old,  that  the 
woman  had  taken  to  nurse,  its  mother  being  dead. 
Everything  went  along  smoothly,  and  they  appeared  to 
be  doing  well  for  four  or  five  years,  when  Jack  got  into 
bad  company  and  began  to  drink.  Before  this  he  and  his 
wife  seemed  to  think  a  great  deal  of  eacl  other,  and  in 
bad  weather  he  would  help  her  about  the  house,  while  in 
good  weather  she  would  work  with  him  out  of  doors.  In 
this  way  he  gained  time  to  do  many  odd  jobs  outside,  and 
made  considerable  money  by  so  doing. 

"After  Henly  pot  in  with  his  -wild  companions,  we 
now  and  then  heard  that  things  were  not  very  pleasant 
between  him  and  his  wife,  but  no  one  ever  dreamed  how 
serious  the  trouble  was  until  the  terrible  tragedy  burst 
like  a  thunderbolt  upon  us.  My  wife  and  Mrs.  Henly 
had  been  great  friends  from  the  first;  and  had  got  in  the 
way  of  borrowing  little  messes  from  each  other,  as  neigh 
bors  often  do,  when  they  came  short  and  could  not  get 
into  town  to  buy  what  was  wanted.  So  one  afternoon  my 
wife  said  she  was  out  of  tea,  and  would  run  over  to  see 
Mrs.  Henly  for  a  little  while,  and  borrow  enough  for 
supper. 

"It  didn't  seem  as  if  she'd  been  gone  long  enough  to 
get  there,  when  she  came  flying  back  as  pale  as  death, 
wringing  her  hands  and  seeming  half-frightened  out  of 
her  senses.  I  rushed  to  ihe  door  to  meet  her,  when  she 
fell  into  my  arms  in  a  dead  faint.  When  she  came  to  she 
was  so  unnerved  by  what  she  had  seen  that  we  had  hard 
work  to  get  the  truth  out  of  her,  but  we  finally  made  out 
that  upon  reaching  Henly's  she  had  knocked  on  the 
door.  No  one  answered,  and  she  stepppd  in,  as  she  had 
often  done,  when  she  saw  Mrs.  Henly  lying  on  the  floor, 


GEOFFREY  VISITS  THE  SCEXE  OF  THE  TRAGEDY.    179 

a  terrible  bruise  and  gash  on  her  forehead.  My  wife  wag 
so  frightened  and  shocked  that  she  dropped  her  cup  on 
the  floor,  where  it  broke  in  a  dozen  pieces,  and  then,  with 
a  scream,  turned  and  ran,  as  fast  as  her  trembling  limbs 
would  carry  her,  toward  home.  I  called  my  son  and  one 
of  my  men,  and  we  started  at  once  for  the  place.  We 
found  the  woman  Ij'ing  as  my  wife  had  described  her, 
only  instead  of  being  dead,  as  she  thought,  she  was  now 
rolling  her  head  from  side  to  sideband  moaning  as  if  in 
great  pain." 

"Not  dead  !"  interrupted  Geoffrey,  in  a  startled  tons. 
"No,  sir,  praise  the  Lord  !  not  dead.  We  lifted  her  and 
laid  her  on  her  bed  just  off  the  kitchen,  when  I  sent  my 
man  for  a  doctor,  and  rny  son  back  home  to  bring  his 
mother,  while  I  got  some  water  and  bathed  the  poor 
woma'n's  head.  My  wife  was  too  sensible  to  nurse  her 
own  feelings  when  she  found  she  was  needed,  and  that 
her  friend  was  not  dead,  and  she  came  immediately  to  do 
what  she  could  for  her. 

"  When  the  doctor  came  he  said  it  was  doubt  nl  if  the 
poor  thing  could  live  ;  the  blow  on  the  head  had  bee  a  a 
fearful  one,  and  it  was  a  wonder  that  it  had  not  killed  her 
outright.  Besides  that,  there  was  the  print  of  three  fin 
gers  on  her  throat,  showing  that  there  had  been  a  strug 
gle  with  some  one,  and  pointing  to  foul  play. 

"Of  course  when  we  found  that  Henly  had  decamped^ 
taking  the  boy  with  him,  we  suspected  him  of  having 
done  the  deed,  and  the  authorities  were  at  once  set  on  hia 
track.  But  nothing  has  ever  been  heard  of  him  or  the 
child  from  that  day  to  this;  at  least  not  to  my  knowl 
edge.  His  wife  had  a  tough  time  of  it.  We  had  her 
brought  over  here,  and  my  wife  and  daughter  took  care 
of  her  through  a  three  month's  illness,  and  when  she  did 
get  up  again  she  was  but  the  shadow  of  her  former  self." 
"Did  she  get  well?"  Geoffrey  exclaimed,  amazed.  • 
"Yes;  she  recovered  her  health,  though  she  was  not  as 
strong  as  she  had  been,  and  her  head  was  apt  to  trouble 
her  at  times.  But  her  heart  was  broken  over  the  disap 
pearance  of  her  husband  and  the  boy.  It  was  a  long  time 
before  we  could  make  her  tell  how  she  had  been  injured, 
and  then  she  excused  Henly.  She  said  he  had  come 
home  the  worse  for  liquor,  and  did  not  know  what  he 
was  about.  She  said  he  must  have  been  frightened,  be 
lieving  ho  had  killed  her,  and  then  taken  the  boy  and 
tied.  I  suspect  there  was  something  more  to  it,  but  that 
was  all  we  could  ever  get  out  of  her." 


180    GEOFFREY  VISITS  THE  SCENE  OF  THE  TRAGEDY. 

"Ah  !"  thought  Geoffrey,  "she  shielded  him  from  the 
suspicion  of  having  murdered  me  also,  and  she  must  have 
suffered  torture  on  my  account  as  well  as  his." 

"As  soon  as  she  was  able  to  gee  about,"  resumed  the 
farmer,  "she  insisted  upon  going  away  altogether  from 
the  place.  She  could  not  go  back  to  her  home  and  live 
there  alone,  she  said,  and  she  wanted  to  search  for  her 
husband,  to  let  him  know  that  he  had  not  killed  her,  as 
he  must  believe.  I  imagined,  too,  that  she  couldn't  bear 
to  meet  the  boy's  father  wiien  he  should  come  again  and 
find  that  he  had  disappeared.  She  sold  all  her  household 
goods,  offered  a  reward  of  a  thousand  dollars— having  de 
posited  that  amount  in  a  bank  in  San  Francisco  tor  the 
purpose — to  anv  one  who  should  find  her  husband  or  se 
cure  any  definite  information  regarding  him,  and  then 
she  left  the  place  herself.  We  have  never  seen  her  since, 
nor  heard  what  became  of  her/' 

"  Did  she  leave  no  address  ?"  Geoffrey  inquired.  "If  not, 
how  could  she  expect  to  be  communicated  with  in  case 
any  tidings  of  her  husband  were  obtained  ?" 

"I  believe  a  personal  of  some  kind  was  to  he  inserted  in 
certain  papers  in  the  leading  cities  of  the  count7-y  by 
those  who  had  charge  of  the  affair,"  replied  the  farmer, 
"but  I  guess  it  iias  never  been  printed.  Their  house  has 
never  been  occupied  since.  A  good  many  people  believe 
that  Henly  murdered  the  hoy  also,  and  concealed  the 
body  somewhere  on  the  farm,  PO  the  place  has  had  the 
reputation  of  being  haunted,  therefore  we  have  never 
had  any  neighbors  there." 

"Since  Mrs.  Henly  was  not  murdered,  I  am   at  liberty 

to  set   your   heart   at   rest   upon   that  subject,"  Geoffrey 

responded.    "The  boy  is  alive  and  well.     I  am  that  boy  !" 

The  farmer  started    from  his  chair  and  stared  at  him  in 

open-mouthed  astonishment  at  this  electrifying  statement. 

UI  can't  believe  it,"  he  said,  at  last,  and  bending  to  look 

more   closely   into   his  visitor's   face,  "and  yet  you  said 

your  name  was  Huntress." 

"Yes,  my  name  is  Geoffrey  Dale  Huntress,"  Geoffrey 
replied,  with  a  smile  at  his  host's  astonishment. 

"That  was  the  child's  name,  Geoffrey  Dale — it  must  be 
true;  do  tell  me  how  you  happen  to  come  back  here  after 
all  these  yearn?"  the  farmer  urged,  in  an  eager  tone. 
Geoffrey  felt  that  he  was  warranted  in  so  doinjr,  since 
Margery  Henly  had  lived,  and  there  was  no  longer  any 
need  of  concealment  on  Jack's  part. 

" Jacli  escaped  all  pursuit,"  he  said,  "wandering  from 


GEOFFREY  VISITS  THE  SCENE  OF  THE  TRAGEDY.    181 

place  to  place  ;  went  to  Texas  on  a  sheep  ranch  for  a,  few 
years,  and  finally  turned  up  in  New  York,  where  1  be 
came  separated  from  him,  and  could  not  be  found.  Just 
about  this  time  he  became  convinced  that  the  officers* 
were  on  his  track — they  must  have  been  those  who  were 
working  for  Mrs.  Henly's  thousand-dollar  reward — and 
he  was  so  frightened  he  suddenly  shipped  lor  Austra 
lia." 

"Poor  fellow,"  said  the  farmer,  sympathetically,  '  he 
must  have  suffered  keenly.  But  this  is  tne  strangest  part 
of  the  whole  story.  I  never  imagined  that  we  should  get 
the  sequel  to  that  tragedy  over  yonder.  Was  the  man 
kind  to  you?  I  used  to  think  he  was  not  over  fond  of  you 
when  you  were  a  little  fellow." 

"No  one  could  have  been  more  kind  than  he  was,  as 
long  as  I  was  with  him,"  Geoffrey  said,  gravely,  as-he 
recalled  all  that  Jack  had  so  recently  told  him. 

He  thought,  too,  as  long  as  Margery  had  kept  the  secret 
of  his  having  been  nearly  murdered  also,  it  would  be  best 
to  still  preserve  silence  upon  that  point. 

"It  was  my  own  fault,"  he  continued,  "that  I  was  lost, 
for  I  wandered  away  without  his  knowledge,  and  he  was 
not  able  to  find  me,  although  he  labored  faithfully  to  do 
so,  until  driven  to  desperation  by  the  belief  that  he  was 
being  tracked." 

"How  did  you  learn  that  he  had  sailed  for  Australia,  if 
you  were  lost  before  he  went?" 

"I  learned  that  later,"  Geoffrey  briefly  replied. 

"And  what  became  of  you?" 

"A  philanthropic  gentleman  became  interested  in  me, 
adopted  me,  and  has  given  me  a  good  education." 

"  Well,  well,  well !  wonders  will  never  cease  !  It's  a 
strangely  romantic  tale,  young  man.  But  how  about 
your  own  father?"  questioned  the  farmer. 

"That  is  a  mystery  which  I  came  h^re  to  try  to  solve," 
Gfoffrey  returned,  looking  troubled,  for  he  seemed  to  be 
no  nearer  the  solution  than  ever.  "All  that  I  really  know 
about  my  father  is  that  he  was  called  Captain  William 
Dale,  and  that  he  at  one  time  owned  shares  in  some  of 
the  mines  of  New  Mexico,  where  my  mother  died.  I  have 
been  there  trying  to  gain  some  trace  of  him,  but  without 
success.  Then  I  came  o?i  here,  hoping  to  learn  something 
of  him  through  people  who  had  known  the  Henlys.  I 
thought  it  probable  that  he  would  come  here,  sometime, 
to  see  me,  as  he  had  previously  been  in  the  habit  of  do 
ing,  and,  finding  that  I  had  disappeared,  would  leave  his 


18J    UEOFFREY  VISITS  THE  SCENE  OF  THE  TRAGEDY. 

address   so   that   he   could   be   informed  if  anything  was 
learned  of  my  fate." 

"He  has  been  here,"  the  farmer  replied  ;  "he  came  only 
about  two  months  after  Mrs.  Henly  left.  I  saw  him  and 
conversed  with  him.  He  appeared  to  be  overwhelmed  with 
grief  upon  learning  of  your  strange  disappearance.  He 
instituted  inquiries,  offering  a  reward  of  five  thousand 
dollars  for  your  recovery,  living,  or  one  thousand  for 
positive  proof  of  your  death,  and  under  these  circum 
stances  I  have  often  wondered  why  some  clew  to  your 
fate  was  not  ascertained." 

Geoffrey  did  not  think  it  strange.  He  knew  that  no  one 
would  have  recognized  in  the  poor  little  imbecile  whom 
Jack  Henly  had  cared  for,  the  bright,  happy  child  wiio 
had  been  Margery's  joy  and  pride. 

He  was  touched,  too,  by  the  evidence  of  his  father's  in 
terest  in  and  love  for  him,  and  yet  it  seemed  inexplicable: 
for,  if  the  man  whom  he  had  met  at  Saratoga  was  his 
father,  and  he  was  anxious  to  find  him,  as  the  farmer 
said,  why  should  he  have  avoided  him  as  he  had  done. 

"But  did  he  leave   no   address?"  he  eagerly  questioned. 

"There  was  something  a  little  queer  about  that,"  said 
the  farmer,  "for  he  did  not  give  any,  really.  I  asked  him 
where  a  communciation  would  reach  him,  and  he  replied 
that  anything  directed  simply  to  Lock  Box  43,  Santa  Fe, 
would  be  all  that  was  necessary." 

Geoffrey's  face  fell  at  this. 

He  Avas  terribly  disappointed,  for  he  had  confidently 
expected  that  he  would  find  something  tangible  through 
this  man,  by  which  he  could  trace  Captain  William  Dale. 

"Lock  Box  43,  Santa  Fe,"  he  repeated,  thoughtfully, 
"and  that  was  all?" 

"That  was  all;  but  perhaps  the  man  didn't  want  his 
name  known  all  over  the  country,  in  connection  with  this 
tragedy  here,"  suggested  his  host. 

"That  is  so,"  Geoffrey  returned,  brightening,  but  he 
said  to  himself  that  he  would  yet  know  who  had  held 
that  post-office  box  in  Santa  Fe  twenty  years  ago,  if  it 
was  in  the  power  of  man  to  discover  it. 

"Has  he  ever  been  here  since?"  he  asked,  after  a  pause. 

"Yes,  twice:  and  the  last  time  he  remarked,  'I  shall 
never  see  the  child  again — I  believe  he  is  dead.'" 

"What  was  the  date  of  his  last  visit?" 

"It  was  about  ten  years  ago,  and  I  have  never  seen 
him  since.  I  am  very  sorry,  Mr.  Huntress,  that  I  can  tell 
TOU  no  more,"  said  the  man,  evidently  feeling  for  his 


AN  UNEXPECTED  MEETING.  Ib3 

Visitor's  discomfiture,  "and  it  really  must  be  a  great  trial 
to  you  to  have  such  a  mystery  enshrouding  your  par 
entage." 

"It  is,  but — it  must  be  solved  sooner  or  later,*1  Geoffrey 
•said,  resolutely. 

He  arose  to  go  as  he  spoke,  thanked  the  farmer  heartily 
for  his  kindness  in  telling  what  he  wished  to  know,  then 
mounted  his  horse  and  rode  back  toward  the  town, 
greatly  perplexed  and  somewhat  disheartened. 

"Lock  Box  43  is  a  slender  thread  to  lead  to  much,  but 
I'll  follow  it  until  it  breaks,"  he  said  to  himself,  as  he 
went  on  his  way. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

AN    UNEXPECTED  MEETING. 

The  sun  had  long  since  gone  down,  and  darkness  was 
rapidly  settling  over  the  country,  as  Geoffrey  pursued 
his  way,  grateful  indeed  that  he  had  such  good  news  to 
take  back  to  JacK,  but  well-nigh  discouraged  on  his  own 
account. 

It  had  been  agreed  that  he  should  learn  all  he  could 
about  Henly's  old  home,  and  where  Margery  was  bur 
ied,  and  that  Jack  should  himself  revisit  the  place  after 
nightfall,  upon  his  return,  since  he  did  not  dare  to  make 
his  appearance  there  by  daylight. 

The  road  to  the  town  lay  through  a  heavy  growth  of 
timber,  and,  as  Geoffrey  came  into  it.  the  darkness  was 
BO  intensified  that  at  first  he  could  hardly  distinguish  the 
way,  when,  suddenly,  his  horse  gave  a  slartled  snort  and 
shied  one  side,  nearly  throwing  bis  rider  from  the  sad 
dle. 

"Gently,  gently,  sir,"  he  said,  reassuringly,  as  he 
quickly  recovered  himself.  "What  is  the  trouble,  mv 
boy  ?" 

He  glanced  searchingly  about  him,  and  saw  a  murtled 
figure  sitting  upon  a  rock  under  the  shadow  of  a  gn-jit 
tree. 

Geoffrey's  hand  instinctively  caught  the  handle  of  the 
revolver  that  he  always  carried  when  traveling,  and  then 
he  rode  directly  up  to  the  figure. 

"Who  are  you?"  he  demanded,  "and  why  are  you  sit 
ting  here  alone  in  the  darkness?" 

"Do  not  fear,  sir,"  responded  a  quiet,  honest  voice.     "I 


184  AN  UNEXPECTED  MEETING. 

am   only  a  woman  on   my  way  home  from   town,  and  sat 
down  here  to  rest  for  a  moment." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,  madame,  for  accosting  you  as  I 
did,"  Geoffrey  returned,  apologetically,  "but  I  confess  I 
was  startled,  as  well  as  my  horse,  for  a  moment,  ^re 
you  not  afraid  to  be  traveling  this  lonely  way  at  this 
time  of  the  evening?" 

"No,  sir,  I  am  not  afraid.  I  know  every  step  of  the 
road,  but  I  am  not  so  young  as  I  was  once,  and  it  tires 
me  to  walk,"  the  woman  replied,  with  a  weary  note  in 
her  voice,  accompanied  by  a  hea^y  sigh. 

"Have  you  far  to  go?"  the  young  man  asked. 
"No,  only  to   the   second  house  from   here — to  Farmer 
Bruce's." 

"  Ah  !  You  are  going  to  Mr.  Bruce's.  I  have  just  come 
from  there.  I  will  turn  about  and  see  yru  safely  to  the 
house;  or,  if  you  could  manage  to  sit  on  a  man's  saddle, 
you  shall  ride,  and  I  will  lead  my  horse,"  Geoffrey  said, 
kindly;  for  now  that  he  had  been  accustomed  to  the  dim 
light  he  could  discern  that  the  woman  looked  worn  and 
weary,  and  his  sympathies  were  enlisted  for  her. 

"No,  no;  thank  you,  sir,  I  will  not  trouble  you,"  the 
woman  returned.  "But  tell  me,"  she  continued,  rising 
and  coming  toward  his  side,  "is  Farmer  Bruce  still 
alive?  Is  tha  family  well?" 

Something  in  her  anxious  tone  and  her  agitated  man 
ner,  as  well  as  these  questions,  sent  a  sudden  thrill 
through  the  young  man's  heart. 

He  bent  and  looked  searchingly  into  her  face,  which 
was  upraised  to  his. 

"Yes,  Farmer  Bruce  is  living.  You  said  you  were  on 
your  way  home.  Do  you  belong  to  the  family?"  he 
asked. 

"No — T— T  used  to  live  near  them  ;  I  have  come  for  a 
visit,"  was  the  confused  replv. 

Geoffrey  bent  still  nearer  to  her,  when  the  woman  sud 
denly  uttered  a  startled  cry,  and  laid  her  hand  upon  his 
arm. 

"Oh,  sir!  who  are  you?"  she  cried.  "I  am  sure  you 
must  be  Master  Geoffrey.  You  are  so  like  your  father. 
T.  should  know  you  anywhere,  and  I  never  could  forjret 
the  boy  I  loved.  You  are  Geoffrey,  aren't  you?  and  don't 
you  remember — Margery?" 

She  pndert  with  a  sob,  and  her  hold  tightened  on  his 
arm  as  if  she  fpnrpo"  to  lose  him. 

Geoffrey  had  half-suspected  her  identity  when  she  had 


AN  UNEXPECTED  MEETING,  185 

inquired  so  eagerly  about  Farmer  Bruce ;  but  it  was  a 
shock  to  him,  neverthel2ss,  to  find  his  suspicions  thus 
verified,  and  be  felt  that,  if  he  should  never  learn  any 
thing  more  definite  regarding  his  father,  he  should  feel 
more  than  repaid  for  his  journey  hither,  just  to  have 
found  Jack  and  Margery,  seen  them  restored  to  each 
other,  and  the  shadow  removed  from  their  lives. 

He  seized  the  trembling  hand  that  lay  upon  his  arm, 
and  shook  it  heartily. 

"Yes,  I  am  Geoffrey,  and  I  do  remember  Margery,"  he 
said,  in  a  glad,  earnest  tone. 

The  poor,  long-suffering,  wandering  creature  dropped 
her  head  against  his  horse's  neck,  and  burst  into  a  pas 
sion  of  tears. 

"Heaven  bless  you,  Master  Geoffrey,  for  owning  it  at 
last —my  heart's  been  well-nigh  crushed  since  you  denied 
it,  and  ran  away  from  me  in  New  York,"  she  said,  bro 
kenly,  between  her  sobs. 

"  Denied  it,  and  ran  away  from  you  in  New  York I" 
repented  the  young  man,  astonished. 

"Yes,  sir;  sure  you  haven't  fogotten  that  day  when 
you  bought  the  roses  of  me,  and  I  asked  you  if  you 
wasn't  Geoffrey  Dale?  You  told  me  no — your  name  was 
Everet,  and  you  didn't  know  anything  about  Jack,  nor 
about  any  of  the  other  things  I  talked  of." 

A  light  broke  upon  Geoffrey's  mind. 

She  had  seen  Everet  Mapleson,  and  made  a  very  nat 
ural  mistake  ;  she  had  believed  him  to  be  the  child  she 
had  loved  and  cared  for,  and  it  was  no  wonder  she  was 
pained  by  his  refusal  to  recognize  her. 

"I  never  bouerht  any  roses  of  you  in  New  York,  Mar 
gery,"  he  said,  kindly.  "I  have  never  seen  you  until 
now  since  I  was  a  small  boy  of  five  years." 

The  woman  looked  up  at  him  amazed. 

Geoffrey  smiled  frankly  into  her  upturned  face. 

"The  young  man  whom  you  met  was  a  Mr.  Everet 
Mapleson  ;  we  were  in  college  together,  and  we  look  so 
much  alike  that  we  are  often  mistaken  for  each  other," 
be  explained. 

"Ah  !  dearie,  my  heart  is  lighter  now  you've  told  me 
this,"  Margery  said,  with  a  long-drawn  sigh.  "I  was 
cruelly  hurt  when  I  thought  you  wouldn't  own  me,  and 
I  was  so  sure,  too,  that  you  could  tell  me  something 
about  Jack — can't  you  tell  me  where  he  is?  Where, 
•where  have  you  been  all  these  years.  Master  Gooff rey. 
Ah,  I  feared  that  cruel  blow  that  Jack  £.r,v"  you  had 


186  AN  UNEXPECTED  MEETING. 

killed  you,  and  I'd  never  see  you  again  ;  but  poor  man  ! 
he'd  never  have  lifted  his  hand  against  you  if  he'd  been 
himself.  Heaven  pity  him  !  wherever  he  is,  if  he's  living 
at  all." 

She  had  rambled  on  in  this  disconnected  way  without 
even  waiting  for  a  reply  to  any  of  her  questions,  and 
Geoffrey  felt  the  tears  rise  to  his  eyes,  as  he  realized 
something  of  the  burden  that  lay  so  heavy  on  her  her.rt, 
and  had  made  the  long,  long  years  so  dreary  and  oppres 
sive  to  her. 

He  dismounted  from  his  horse,  and  taking  her  by  the 
arm.  said,  gently  : 

"Come  back  to  the  rock,  Margery,  where  you  were  sit 
ting,  and  I  will  tell  you  all  you  wish  to  know.  It  is  a 
long  story,  and  you  will  be  weary  with  standing." 

She  looked  up  appealingly. 

"One  word,  Master  Geoffrey.     Jack " 

Her  trembling  lips  refused  to  utter  another  word,  and 
the  young  man  thought  he  might  as  well  tell  her  at  once 
about  her  husband  and  sot  her  heart  at  rest. 

"Jack  is  living  and  well,  and — within  a  mile  of  you  at 
this  very  moment,"  he  said,  in  a  cheerful  tone. 

"Oh,  dearie!  Heaven  reward  you  for  those  blessed 
words,"  Margery  murmured  ;  then  her  head  sank  upon 
her  breast,  and,  tottering  weakly  forward,  she  dropped 
upon  the  rock  where  Geoffrey  had  first  seen  her,  &nd  fell 
to  sobbing  like  a  tired  child. 

Geoffrey  waited  until  she  had  grown  somewhat  calmer, 
and  then  told  her,  as  briefly  as  he  could,  something  of  his 
own  and  Jack's  history  during  the  last  eighteen  years. 

She  never  interrupted  him  during  the  recital,  but 
seemed  to  drink  in  every  word,  as  one  perishing  from 
thirst  would  drink  in  pure,  life-giving  water. 

When  at  last  he  had  told  her  all,  she  lifted  her  face, 
and,  while  she  wiped  the  streaming  tears  from  her  eyes, 
she  exclaimed  : 

"Ah  !  Master  Geoffrey,  I  feel  almost  as  if  I  was  draw 
ing  nigh  to  heaven,  after  all  the  waiting,  the  wandering, 
the  loneliness,  and  misery,  to  find  my  Jack  again,  and 
know  that  he  has  been  true  to  his  love  for  me  all  the 
time.  Poor  fellow  !  his  fate  has  been  harder  than  mine, 
after  all.  for  he's  had  to  carry  a  burden  of  guilt  with 
h  m  ;  but  it  is  all  over  now,  thank  Heaven  !  You  will 
take  me  straight  to  hirn  ?"  she  concluded,  eagerly. 

"Of  course  I  will,"  Geoffrey  replied,  heartily,  "he  is 
waiting  at  the  public  house  in  the  town  for  me  ;  waiting 


AN  UNEXPECTED  MEETING.  187 

for  me  to  come  and  tell  him  about  his  old  home,  from 
which  he  fled  so  many  years  ago,  and  about  a  certain 
grave,  which  he  has  imagined  has  lain  lonely  and  neg 
lected  all  that  time,  and  which  he  was  to  go  to  visit, 
under  cover  of  the  darkness,  upon  my  return." 

"Poor  man  !  poor  man  !"  sobbed  Margery,  all  unmind 
ful  of  her  own  long  suffering,  in  her  sympathy  for  her 
erring  husband,  "but,  praise  the  Lord,  there's  no  grave 
for  him  to  weep  over,  and  he  can  walk  the  earth 
once  more  and  fear  no  man." 

She  arose  and  drew  her  cloak  about  her  preparatory  to 
going  back  to  the  town  with  her  companion. 

Geoffrey  insisted  that  she  should  ride,  while  he  walked 
beside  her  and  guided  the  horse. 

He  saw  that  she  was  very  weary,  as  well  as  weak,  from 
her  recent  agitation,  and  not  fit  to  walk  the  long  dis 
tance. 

She  demurred  at  first,  but  he  would  listen  to  no  objec 
tions,  and  she  permitted  him  to  put  her  into  the  saddle, 
and  then  they  started  on  their  way. 

Geoffrey  questioned  her  about  her  life  during  the  past 
eighteen  years,  and  he  maveled,  as  he  listened  to  her 
story,  at  the  woman's  unwavering  dev.otion  and  love  for 
the  man  whose  hand  so  nearly  deprived  hor  of  life. 

She  told  him,  as  Mr.  Bruce  had  already  done,  that,  as 
soon  as  she  was  able,  she  had  sold  off  all  her  household 
goods  and  the  farm-stock,  and  realized  over  a  thousand 
dollars.  She  deposited  all  but  enough  for  her  immediate 
needs  in  a  bank  of  San  Francisco,  where  she  already  had 
some  money  laid  by,  and  instructed  a  lawyer  there  to 
use  it  as  a  reward  for  the  discovery  of  her  husband. 

She  then  began  her  own  tiresome  pilgrimage  to  search 
for  him  herself.  She  roved  from  one  large  city  to  an 
other,  stopping  some  time  in  each,  now  taking  in  wash 
ing  and  ironing  to  support  herself  and  earn  money  to 
continue  her  search  in  the  next  place  where  she  should 
go ;  going  out  as  a  servant  in  other  places,  or  selling 
flowers  or  confectionery  upon  the  corners  of  the  streets 
for  the  same  purpose,  while  she  eagerly  scanned  every 
face  she  saw  in  the  hope  of  somewhere  and  sometime 
coming  across  either  Jack  or  the  boy ;  she  had  never 
believed,  as  others  did,  that  the  latter  was  dead.  She  felt 
Bure  that  Jaek  must  have  discovered  some  sign  of  life 
about  him,  and  taken  him  away  with  the  hope  of  having 
him  restored. 

In  this  way  she  had  visited   every  large  city  in  the 


188  AN  UNEXPECTED  MEETING. 

United  States.  She  had  been  in  different  mining  districts 
also,  thinking  that  perhaps  her  husband  might  have  gone 
back  to  his  old  business,  hoping  thus  to  hide  himself 
more  securely.  She  had  even  been  in  Canada  and  other 
British  provinces,  but  had  never  met  with  the  least 
encouragement  in  her  search,  until  that  day  when  she 
had  seen  Everet  Mapleson  in  New  Yoik  and  believed  him 
to  he  Geoffrey.  Her  disappointment  and  grief,  at  his  per 
sistent  denial  of  all  knowledge  of  her,  had  actually  pros 
trated  her  for  the  first  lime  during  all  her  tireless  search, 
and  she  had  not  been  able  to  leave  her  lied  for  several 
weeks,  which  accounts  for  young  Mapleson's  inability  to 
find  her. 

At  length,  during  the  last  few  months,  she  had  relin 
quished  all  hope  ;  but  an  insatiable  longing  seized  her  to 
visit  her  old  home  once  more,  and  the  kind  family  who 
had  befriended  her  in  the  hour  of  her  soi-e  need.  After 
that,  she  meant  to  draw  her  money  from  the  bank  in  San 
Francisco,  and  with  it  purchase  a  ri^ht  in  some  home 
for  the  agod.  where  she  could  peacefully  spend  the  re 
mainder  of  her  life. 

The  woman  was  not  old,  being  only  about  forty-five 
years  of  age,  but  her  sorrow  and  the  laborious  existence 
she  bad  led  had  aged  her  far  more  than  even  another 
decade  could  have  done. 

She  could  tell  Geoffrey  nothing  more  regarding  the 
identity  of  his  father  than  he  already  knew.  She  had 
never  seen  him  sin^e  his  last  visit  to  her  home,  more 
than  a  year  previous  to  the  tragedy,  and  she  had  never 
known  any  other  address  than  the  one  of  wbich  Mr. 
Bruce  had  spoken.  He  had  told  her  to  send  a  letter  to 
"Lock  Box  43,  Santa  Fe,"  if  anything  should  ever  happen 
to  his  boy,  and  she  wished  to  summon  him. 

But  she  had  gone  away  without  communicating  with 
him;  she  had  been  eager  to  get  away  before  he  could 
come  again,  for  she  had  not  courage  to  meet  him  and  tell 
him  the  dreadful  story  about  his  child,  which  she  alone 
knew. 

"Margery,"  Geoffrey  said,  gravely,  after  she  had  con 
cluded  her  account,  "have  you  never  thought  that  there 
•was  something  very  strange  in  thf>  fact  that  my  father 
should  have  been  so  reserved  about  himsplf,  and  kppt  his 
only  child  so  remote  and  concealed  from  all  his 
friend  s  ?r 

"Yes,  Master  Geoffrey,  it  did  strike  me  as  queer,  at 
times;  but  I  reasoned  that  perhaps  he  hadn't  any  very 


AN  UNEXPECTED  MEETING.  189 

near  friends,  for  he  talked  of  putting  you  to  some  school 
as  soon  as  you  were  old  enough  to  go  away  from  me." 

"Do  you  think  that  everything  was  all  right  between 
him  and  my  mother?" 

"How  right,  sir?'  the  woman  asked,  with  surprise. 

"Do  you  think  that  they  were  legally  married!?  Did 
you  never  see  or  hear  anything  while  you  lived  with 
them,  to  make  you  suspnct  that  they  might  not  he  hus 
band  and  wife?  It  is  a  hard  question  for  a  son  to  ask, 
but  the  secrecy,  with  which  my  father  lias  seemed  to 
h'-dire  himself  about,  has  led  me  to  foar  that  there  was 
some  grave  reason  why  he  could  not,  or  wouid  not,  have 
me  with  him  and  openly  recognize  me.  Why  was  he 
unwilling  to  have  you  use  his  name  if  you  had  occasion 
to  write  to  him,  but  instead  gave  you  n  blind  address, 
which  no  one  could  recognize,  and  to  which,  doubtless, 
he  alone  had  the  key?" 

"Good  lord,  Master  Geoffrey,  never  have  any  such 
thoughts  entered  my  head  before!"  Margery  exclaimed, 
in  a  tone  of  startled  amazement.  "I  never  saw  a  man 
fonder  of  his  wife  than  Captain  Dale  was  of  your  mother; 
and  he  had  reason  to  be  fond  of  her,  too,  for  she  wor 
shiped  the  very  air  he  breathed,  and  was  always  so  sweet 
and  mei'ry  that  a  man  would  have  been  a  brute  not  to 
have  loved  her.  But " 

"Well?"  queried  Geoffrey,  eagerly,  the  hot  Mood  surg 
ing  to  his  brow,  with  a  feeling  of  dread,  as  she  stopped, 
a  note  of  sudden  conviction  in  her  tone. 

"  Well,  I  do  remember,  once,  that  she  did  not  seem 
quife  happy,  but  I  have  never  given  it  a  second  thought 
until  now."  Margery  said,  reflectively. 

"Tell  me  about  it,"  the  young  man  commanded,  briefly. 

"They  had  be<»n  out  for  a  walk  one  night  after  tea,  and 
it  was  quite  dark  when  they  returned.  They  stopped  a 
moment  on  the  steps,  before  coming  in,  and  I  Was  at  an 
open  window  up  stairs  just  above  them.  Your  mother 
had  boon  crying — I  could  tell  by  tho  sound  of  her  voice — 
all  at  once  she  turned  and  threw  her  arms  around  the 
captain's  neck  and  sobbed  : 

'•'Oh,  Will,  I  wish  you  would,  for  my  sake  and — for  our 
baby's  sake.' 

"'I  will,  my  darling,'  the  captain  told  her,  'it  shall  be 
done  just  as  soon  as  1  can  turn  mysolf,  but  it  would  ruin 
me  to  do  it  now.  Have  patience,  my  pet.  and  it  will  be 
all  right  in  a  few  months  more,  at  tho  furthest.' 

"She   didn't   say   another   word,  only   uttered   a   tired 


190  A  STARTLING   RECOGNITION. 

kind  of  sigh,  kissed  him  softly,  and  then  they  went  in. 
But  I  never  thought  much  about  i*<  afterward.  I  didn't 
know  but  what  she  had  been  coaxing  him  to  leave  the 
mines  and  go  back  to  where  they  came  from,  foi'  I'm 
sure  it  couldn't  have  been  nice  for  her  to  live  there  where 
there  wasn't  hardly  another  woman  fit  to  associate  with 
her,"  Margery  concluded,  thoughtfully. 

But  Geoffrey  believed  his  gentle  mother  bad  been  ask 
ing  for  something  far  more  important  than  a  change  of 
residence  ;  that  would  have  been  of  comparatively  little 
consequence  to  her,  loving  his  father  as  she  did.  He 
imagined  that  sue  had  been  pleading  to  be  recognized 
as  Captain  Dale's  lawful  wife,  so  that  her  child  might 
have  Honorable  birth. 

He  sighed  heavily,  for  the  farther  he  went  in  his  search 
the  darker  and  more  perplexijig  grew  the  way. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

A  STARTLING    RECOGNITION. 

Reaching  the  public  house  where  he  had  Left  Jack, 
Geoffrey  quietly  drew  Margery  into  the  small  parlor, 
where  he  made  her  lay  aside  her  bonnet  and  cloak,  put 
her  into  a  comfortable  rocker  to  rest,  and  then  went  out 
to  break  the  g!ad  tidings  of  her  existence  and  return  to 
her  husband. 

He  found  him  sitting  alone  on  the  porch  outside  the 
bar-room — nothing  ever  tempted  him  inside  such  a  place 
nowadays — looking  wistfully  out  toward  the  east,  where 
the  full  August  moon  was  just  rising  above  the  horizon 
in  all  i4s  splendor. 

"Well,  Jack,  has  the  time  seemed  very  long  to  you?" 
Geoffrey  asked,  in  a  cheerful  tone,  as  he  sat  down  beside 
him. 

"  It  has,  sir ;  I've  had  hard  work  to  wait.  I've  a 
strange  hankerin'  after  the  old  home  to-night.  If  I  could 
only  wake  up  and  find  I'd  been  dreamin'  all  these  years, 
and  the  old  place  just  as  it  was,  with  my  girl  wait-in'  at 
the  door  for  me,  I'd  almost  be  willin'  to  give  up  my  hope 
o'  heaven.  But  when  I  think  it's  only  an  empty  house — 
a  cold  hearth-stone,  and — a  grave  somewhere  nigh,  that 
I'm  goin'  to  find,  1  feel  a'most  like  givin'  up  the  battle." 

The  man's  head  sank   upon  his  breast  in  a  disconsolate 


A  STARTLING  RECOGNITION.  191 

way,  while  i-t  seemed  as  if  he  had  no  heart  to  ask  Geoffrey 
anything  about  the  trip  from  \vhich  he  had  just  returned. 

The  young  man  waited  a  lew  moments,  hoping  he 
would  question  him  ;  but  as  he  still  remained  absorbed 
in  his  own  sad  thoughts,  he  at  length  remarked  : 

"Well,  Jack,  I  found  Farmer  Bruce." 

"  Ay  !  then  he's  alive  yet ;  he  must  be  nigh  on  to  sixty," 
the  man  replied,  looking  up  now  with  a  gleam  of  inter 
est. 

u  I  should  judge  him  to  be  about  that ;  but  he's  hale 
and  hearty,  and  seems  like  a  very  kind-hearted  man, 
too." 

"A  better  never  lived!"  Jack  affirmed;  "rnany's  the 
good  turn  he  and  his  wife  has  done  me,  and— ah  ! " 

A  shiver  completed  the  sentence,  as  if  those  by-gone 
days  were  too  painfu.l  to  dwell  upon. 

Geoffrey  pitied  the  poor  fellow  from  the  depths  of  his 
heart,  and  yet  he  hardly  knew  where  to  begin,  or  how 
to  break  his  good  news  to  him. 

"Shall  I  tell  you  what  Mr.  Bruce  told  me,  Jack?"  he 
at  length  asked. 

The  man  nodded,  and,  by  the  light  of  the  moon,  his 
companion  saw  a  gray  pallor  sett.le  over  his  face,  which 
seemed  to  have  grown  almost  rigid  in  its  outlines. 

Geoffrey  began  by  telling  him  how  Mrs.  Bruce  had  gone 
over  to  borrow  some  tea  of  Mrs.  Henly,  the  day  follow 
ing  Jack's  flight;  how  she  knocked  and  there  came  no 
response,  when  she  stepped  into  the  kitchen  and  found 
Margery  lying  on  the  floor,  and  becoming  so  frightened 
at  the  sight,  she  had  turned  and  fled  back  to  her  home, 
with  hardly  more  than  a  glance  at  the  prostrate  woman. 

"Farmer  Bruce,"  he  went  on,  "at  once  went  back  to 
your  house,  taking  his  son  and  a  hired  man  with  him. 
They  lifted  Margery  and  laid  her  on  her  bed,  and  then 
John  Bruce  rode  off  with  all  his  might  after  a  doctor — 

"Doctor!  What  could  they  want  of  a  doctor? — a  cor 
oner,  ye  mean,"  interrupted  Jack,  in  a  thick,  hoarse 
voice. 

"No,  a  doctor,  Jack — she  needed  one  ;  she  didn't  need 
a  coroner." 

u  Ha  !" 

The  man  started  wildly  to  his  feet  as  the  hoarse  cry 
burst  from  njui ;  th*»n  he  sank  back  again,  pressing  his 
hands  hard  against  his  temples  and  scaring1  about  him  in 
a  half-dazed  way,  as  if  he  had  not  comprehended  what  he 
had  heard. 


192  A  STAKTL1XG  RECOGNITION. 

"Master  Geoffrey,  don't — don't  tell  me  no  more,"  he 
pleaded,  in  an  agonized  tone,  "I  can't  bear  it;  they 
didn't  need  tiny  doctor  to  tell  tliem  that  she  was  dead — 
jast  leli  me  where  to  find  her  grave.  I'll  go  and  take  one 
look  at  it ;  then  I'll  make  tracics  again  for  Australia;  I 
can't  slop  lit- re." 

The  man's  tone  was  so  despairing,  his  attitude  so  hope 
less,  and  his  words  so  heart-broken,  that  Geoffrey  had 
hard  work  to  preserve  his  own  composure. 

"But,  Jack,  there— there  isn't  any  grave,"  he  said  at 
last. 

Jack  lifted  another  vacant  look  to  the  young  man's 
face. 

"No  grave!  no  coroner!  a  doctor!"  lie  muttered,  then 
suddenly  he  seemed  to  comprehend,  and  was  galvanized 
into  Hie. 

He  sprang  up  ;  he  seized  Geoffrey  by  the  shoulder. 

"  B;>y  !  boy!"  lie  cried,  in  a  strained,  unnatural  voice, 
Mye  can't  mean  it!  ye  can't  mean  that  she  didn't  die! 
that — that  i  didn't  kill  herafierall!  Teil  me— tell  me 
quick!  if  ye'vo  brought  me  such  blessed  truth  as  that, 
I'm  yer  slave  as  long  as  I  live." 

He  was  terribly  agitated.  He  shook  as  if  he  had  sud 
denly  been  attacked  with  violent  ague,  and  Geoffrey 
could  see  his  broad  client  rise  and  fall  \\ith  the  heavy 
throbbing  of  Ins  startled  neart. 

"Sit  down,  Jack,"  he  commanded,  rising  and  putting 
him  back  into  his  chair;  "you  must  be  more  cnlm,  or  1 
cannot  tell  you  anything.  Margery  was  not  dead,  but 
she  \Vas  dreadfully  hurt,  and  was  ill  for  a  long  time,  so 
ill  that  for  more  than  a  month  they  thought  every  day 
that  she  must  die." 

"  And — she — didn't r 

The  words  were  almost  inarticulate,  but  Geoffrey 
understood  him  by  the  motion  of  his  lips. 

"Don't  tell  me,"  lie  continued,  catching  his  breath  in 
a  spasmodic  wa> ,  a  look  of  horror  in  his  eyes,  "don't  tell 
me  that  she  lived  to  be — like  ns  you  was." 

"No,  no,  Jack,  she  got  well,"  Geoffrey  replied,  but  his 
own  voice  shook  over  the  words. 

"O-h  !  my  girl  :" 

Jack  Henly  slipped  from  his  chair,  falling  upon  his 
knees  beside  his  companion,  while  his  head  dropped  a 
dead  weight  Mgainst  his  arm. 

"Lock  here,  icy  man,"  Geoffrey  now  said,  with  gruff 
kindness,  though  he  was  nearly  unmanned  himself,  "this 


A  STARTLING  RECOGNITION.  193 

isn't  going  to  do  at  all.     You  must  brace  up,  for  there  is 
a  lung  siory  to  be  told  yet." 

He  lifted  him  to  his  feet  by  main  force,  drew  his  arm 
within  his  own,  and  compelled  him  to  v\alk  up  and  clown 
the  porch  two  ur  three  times.  Then  he  seated  him  again, 
ami  began  at  once  to  tell  poor  Margery's  story. 

The  man  listened  as  if  spell-bound  ;  he  scarcely  seemed 
to  breathe,  so  intent  was  he  to  catch  every  woid.  He  did 
not  move,  even,  until  Geoffrey  mentioned  meeting  the 
strange  woman  in  tlie  wood,  when  lie  looked  up,  a  wild 
gleam  in  his  eye,  a  cry  of  joy  on  his  lips. 

\Vhen  Geoffrey  repeated  what  she  had  told  him  about 
her  traveling  from  city  to  city,  searching  tor  her  hus 
band,  working  at  whatever  her  hand  could  find  to  do,  to 
earn  the  money  necessary  to  ktepupher  tireless  quest, 
he  could  control  himself  no  longer.  Great  sobs  broke 
from  him. 

"My  girl !  my  girl !  I  never  deserved  it  of  her  !  Where 
is  she,  Master  Geoffrey?  tell  me  and  I'll  creep  on  my 
knees  to  her  feet  and  ask  her  forgiveness!"  he  wildly 
Cried. 

"Jack,  she  is  here  !" 

"Here!  "Where?"  and  he  glanced  about  him  in  fear 
and  awe. 

"Here,  in  this  very  house  !  waiting,  longing  to  Fee  you  ! 
to  ease  .your  conscience  of  its  burden,  and  tell  you  that 
phe  freely  forgives  everything  !" 

"Can  she?"  the  trembling  husband  breathed  in  an  awed 
tone. 

"Come  and  see,"  Geoffrey  returned,  and  taking  him  by 
the  arm,  he  led  him  toward  the  parlor  where  Margery 
was  anxiously  awaiting  him,  her  patience  neaily  ex 
hausted  by  the  long  delay. 

Reaching  the  door  Geoffrey  opened  it,  pushed  Jack 
inside  the  room,  then  shut  the  two  in  together. 

"Jack!" 

'•Madge  !  my  girl  !" 

The  glad,  fond  cry  of  the  wife,  restored  at  last  to  her 
long-sought  loved  one,  the  pleading,  repentant  intona 
tion  of  the  erring  husband,  were  the  only  sounds  that  he 
caught,  as  he  turned  away,  and  with  tears  in  his  eyes, 
went  out  alone  into  the  quiet  summer  night  leaving  them 
in  their  joy. 

Two  hours  later,  Jack  came  to  seek  him,  but  he  v  alked 
like  a  drunken  man,  weakly  and  unsteadily. 

His  unexpected   happiness  was  almost  more  than   he 


194  A  STARTLING   RECOGNITION. 

had  strength  to  bear,  and  he  seemed  weak  and  shaken  as 
if  f-om  a  long  illness ;  but  on  his  rough  and  weather- 
beaten  face  there  was  a  look  of  peace  and  joy  that 
Geoffrey  never  forgot. 

"Master  Geoffrey,"  he  said,  in  an  humble  tone,  though 
there  was  a  ring  of  gratitude  and  gladness  in  it ;  "it's  all 
right  at  last,  thank  God  !  I'll  never  say  there  ain't  a 
God  again.  I  can  face  the  whole  world,  now  that  my 
Mad  go  lives  and  loves  me  the  same  as  ever.  I  can  breathe 
free  once  more,  since  I  know  her  blood  ain't  on  my  hands 
— oh  i  it's  too  good  a'most  to  be  true  !"  he  continued,  dra\v- 
insr  a  long,  full  breath,  "and  bless  ye,  sir,  all  I've  got  in 
the  world  wouldn't  pay  ye  what  I  owe  ye." 

"Jack,  you  owe  me  nothing,"  Geoffrey  responded, 
grasping  him  heartily  by  the  hand.  '*!  do  not  forget  who 
cared  for  me  during  the  first  few  yeais  of  my  life,  and 
if  I  have  helped  in  any  way  to  restore  peace  to  you  and 
happiness  to  Margery,  I  am  more  than  paid  already." 

"Thank  ye,  sir;  but  won't  ye  come  in  and  sup  with 
us — that  is  if  ye  haven't  had  something  already." 

Juck  pleaded  with  an  air  of  humility. 

"No.  I've  br>en  too  busy  with  my  thoughts  to  care 
anything  for  eating,  and  I'll  join  you  with  pleasure,'1 
Geoffrey  answered,  cordially. 

He  returned  to  the  parlor  with  Jack,  where  he  found 
Margery  with  a  beaming  face,  and  the  landlady  laying 
the  table  for  three. 

It  was  two  hours  later  before  they  separated  for  the 
night,  and  during  that  time  many  plans  for  the  future 
were  discussed  by  the  reunited  couple. 

Neither  Jack  nor  Mar.erery  felt  inclined  to  remain  in 
tha  West,  where  they  had  suffered  so  much,  and  where 
there  would  be  constant  reminders  of  the  painful  past, 
and  it  was  finally  decided  that  they  should  proceed  at 
once  to  the  farm  which  Jack  still  owned  in  Nf\v  J  -rsf-y, 
and  if  Margery  was  pleased  with  the  place  they  would 
settle  ^here  and  spend  the  remainder  of  their  lives  upon 
it.  The  next  morning  they  wpnt  to  pay  Farmer  "Bruce  a 
visit,  and  inform  him  of  the  happy  ending  to  all  their 
trouble. 

The  following  day  thev  went  to  San  Francisco,  whore 
thev  drew  Margery's  money  from  tho  bank,  in  which  it 
had  remained  so  loner,  and  a  snug  little  sum  it  was,  too, 
having  accumulated  for  so  many  years.  A  week  Inter 
t  hey  all  turned  their  backs  upon  the  Pacific  coast  and  set 
their  faces  toward  the  East.  Geoffrey  accompanied  them 


A  STARTLING   RECOGNITION.  i   1 

as  far  as  Cheyenne,  Wyoming,  where  he  took  leave  of 
them,  as  he  was  going  southward  into  New  Mexico  again. 
But  he  promised  to  pay  them  an  early  visit  when  he 
should  return  to  Brooklyn. 


While  these  events  were  transpiring  in  the  far  West, 
an  interesting  incident  occurred  in  the  far  East — in  no 
other  city  than  Boston — which  has  its  bearing  on  ouf 
story  and  properly  belongs  here. 

On  a  bright,  beautiful  summer  morning,  in  the  month 
of  July,  a  lady  entered  a  handsome  drug  store  on  Wash 
ington  street,  and  asked  permission  to  look  at  a  city 
directory. 

She  was  a  finely  formed,  brilliant-looking  woman,  ele 
gantly  dressed,  and  bearing  herself  with  the  ease  and 
self-possession  of  one  accustomed  to  the  most  cultured 
circles  of  society. 

A  portly  gentleman,  with  a  wealth  of  white  hair 
crowning  his  shapely  head,  and  wearing  gold-bowed  spec 
tacles,  stepped  from  behind  his  desk  as  the  Jady  marie 
her  request,  and  politely  laid  the  hook  before  her.  As 
he  did  so,  and  his  keen  glance  fell  m  on  her  face,  lie 
started  slightly,  but  was  far  too  well-bred  to  betray  his 
surprise  at  her  appearance,  if  he  experienced  any,  and 
immediately  returned  to  his  post  at  his  desk. 

But  he  managed  to  place  himself  where  he  could  sc-e 
his  Adsitor,  without  being  himself  observed. 

The  woman  turned  to  the  D's  in  the  directory,  and 
ran  her  neatly  gloved  finger  slowly  down  the  line,  paus 
ing  here  and  there  as  a  name  appeared  to  attract  her 
special  attention. 

After  carefully  searching  several  pages,  she  turned 
back  and  began  to  go  over  the  same  ground  again,  while 
a  faint  line  of  perplexity  and  annoyance  appeared 
between  her  finely-arched  brows. 

This  second  search  seemed  to  be  as  unsuccessful  as  the 
previous  one  had  been,  and  for  the  third  time  she  re 
viewed  the  list  of  names  under  the  letter  D.  It  was  use 
less,  however;  the  name  she  sought  WHS  not  there.  Shn 
Stood  musing  for  a  few  moments,  then  opening  her 
pooket-book — an  elegant  affair  of  Russia  leather  with 
clasps  of  gold — she  took  from  it  a  card  to  which  aba 
referred. 

"The  name  is  surely  not  in  the  directory,"  she  mur 
mured. 


J96  A  STARTLING    RECOGNITION. 

There  was  a  moment  of  silence,  then  the  distinguished- 
loolting  gentleman  behind  the  desk  stepped  forward 
again. 

"Did  you  speak  to  me,  madame?"  he  inquired,  blandly. 

The  lady  8tarted  and  looked  up  quickly,  the  color  on 
her  cheek  deepening  a  trifle  at  his  query. 

"I  did  not  know  that  I  spoke  at  al),v  she  replied,  with 
a  brilliant  smile,  which  revealed  two  rows  of  white, 
handsome  teeth,  every  one  of  them  her  own. 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  the  druggist,  with  a  bow 
and  M  backward  step,  as  if  to  beat  a  retreat  again. 

Madame  made  a  motion  with  her  faultlessly  gloved 
hand  to  detain  him. 

"I  was  looking  for  the  name  of  August  Damon,"  she 
Baid,  her  eyes  wandering  again  to  the  directory  :  "but  I 
do  not  find  it  there." 

"Ah  !  some  one  whose  residence  you  wished  to  find  in 
the  city?"  the  gentleman  remarked. 

"Yes.  I  imagined  .1  should  find  him  here,"  said  the 
lady,  thoughtfully. 

The  druggist  drew  the  book  toward  him,  ran  his  eyea 
through  the  names  under  the  D's. 

"The  name  is  not  here,"  he  said  at  last,  as  he  raised 
his  glance  and  fixed  it  with  keen  scrutiny  upon  that 
beautiful  face  before  him. 

Madame  tapped  her  foot  impatiently  and  somewhat 
nervously  on  tlie  floor. 

"I  am  greatlv  disappointed,"  she  said. 

"You  are  sure  that  you  have  the  correct  name— you 
have  made  no  mistake?"  the  gentleman  inquired,  glanc 
ing  at  the  card  in  her  hand. 

"Yes :  but  you  can  see  for  yourself,"  and  she  passed  it 
to  him,  with  a  smile. 

It  was  a  common  visiting  card,  yellow,  and  defaced 
with  age  and  handling,  and  it  bore  the  name  of  "August 
Damon,"  written  with  ink  in  a  fine,  gentlemanly  haftd. 

"Do  you  know  that  your  friend  resides  in  Boston,  mad 
ame?"  the  pharmacist  asked,  as  his  keen  eyes  rixed  them 
selves  again  upon  her  countenance. 

"They — used  to  ;  it — is  some  years  since  I  last  visited 
th«  city,  and  it  is  possible  they  have  removed  to  some 
other  place.  They  must  have  done  so,"  she  concluded, 
with  a  sigh,  "or  I  should  surely  have  found  their  name 
in  the  directory." 

"Were  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Da tn on  the  parties  to  whom  you 
gave  your  child,  Mrs.  Marston?" 


A  RETROSPECTIVE  Gl  <FCE.  197 

The  question  was  very  quietly,  very  politely  put,  but  it 
was  like  the  application  of  a  powerful  galvanic  battery 
to  the  woman  on  the  other  side  of  the  counter. 

A  shock — a  shiver  ran  through  her  entire  frame. 

She  grew  deadly  Avhite,  and  for  a  moment  seemed 
ready  to  drop  to  the  floor. 

Then  she  rallied. 

"  Sir  1"  she  said,  with  a  haughty  uplifting  of  her  proud 
head . 

"Madame!" 

"I  do  not  understand  you." 

"Did  you  not?  Shall  I  repeat  my  question?"  was  the 
quiet  query. 

She  made  a  gesture  of  impatience. 

"You  have  made  a  mistake,"  the  lady  returned,  but 
her  eyes  were  searching  the  druggist's  fare  with  a  light 
ning  glance,  while  that  deadly  paleness  again  overspread 
her  own. 

"Nay,  madame,"  was  the  bland  rejoinder;  "I  am  one 
of  the  few  men  in  the  world  who  never  forget  either  a 
face  or  a  name!  Mrs.  Marston,  surely  you  have  not  for 
gotten  Doctor  Thomas  Turner  who  waited  upon  you  at 
the House  one  bitter  night  in  the  winter  of  18 — ." 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

A   RETROSPECTIVE   GLANCE. 

It  was  indeed  Doctor  Turner,  although  twenty  years  or 
more  had  changed  him  greatly. 

They  had  given  portliness  to  bin  form,  turned  his  dark 
brown  hair  to  a  silvery  whiteness,  and  seamed  his  face 
with  many^a  line  of  thought  and  care. 

He  now  wore,  too,  a  full  beard,  which  was  also  very 
gray,  although  not  as  white  a,s  his  hair,  while  the  gold- 
bowed  spectacles,  which  had  become  a  constant  neces 
sity,  added  to  the  strangeness  of  his  appearance. 

Ho  had  given  up  his  practicp  some  ten  years  previous, 
and  was  now  the  sole  proprietor  of  the  handsome  drug 
etoro  on  Washington  street,  already  mentioned. 

But,  although  Doctor  Turner  had  spoken  with  the  ut 
most  confidence  in  addressing  the  lady  before  him,  charg 
ing  her  with  her  idontitv,  he  wag  nevertheless  somewhat 
staggered  when  she  looked  him  calmly  in  the  eye  and 
replied,  without  a  tremor,  in  her  full,  rich  tones  : 


tVy  A  HKTHOXPECTIVE  OLA'ffCE. 

"You  are  mistaken,  Doctor  Turner — if  that  is  your 
name — mine  is  not  'Mrs.  Mnrston,'  and  never  was." 

"I  know  that  your  true  name  is  not  Mrs.  Marston  and 
never  was,"  the  physician  replied,  after  a  moment's  quiet 
Study  of  his  companion;  ''but  you  are  nevertheless  the 

woman   whom    I   attended    at   the House   on   the 

date  I  have  mentioned.     You  are  ve«'y  little  changed,  and 
I  could  not  fail  to  recognize  you  anywhere.'' 

The  woman's  face  prew  crimson,  then  startlingly  white 
again  ;  her  eyes  drooped  beneath  his  steady  gaze,  her  lips 
trembled  from  inward  excitement. 

"You  have  a  remarkable  memory,"  she  murmured, 
and  stood  confessed  before  him. 

"No  better  than  your  own,  mad  am  e,  if!  had  changf  d  as 
little  as  yourself.  Time  has  dealt,  far  less  kindly  with 
me.  Not  a  thread  of  your  hair  has  silvered,  your  color  is 
as  fresh,  your  face  as  fair  as  on  the  day  of  our  last  meet 
ing.  Pardon  me,"  continued  the  doctor,  with  a  deprecat 
ing  gesture,  "for  reminding  you  so  abruptly  of  the  past, 
but  1  have  never  ceased  to  feel  a  deep  interest  in  the 
mysterious  case  to  which  I  have  referred,  and  I  could  not 
refrain  from  renewing  the  acquaintance." 

"With  what  object?"  queried  ir.adarne,  with  cold 
dignity. 

"I  cannot  say  that  1  have  any  definite  object  in  mind," 
responded  the  physician,  suavely  :  "possibly  I  imagined 
I  might  be  on  the  brink  of  a  discovery.  However,  that  is 
neither  here  nor  there  ;  if  you  are  desirous  of  finding  the 
gentleman  who  adopted  your  child,  it  may  be  thai  I  can 
assist  you,  if,  after  you  confide  in  rre  .your  reasons  for 
seeking  him,  I  shall  drem  it  advisable." 

Mrs.  Marston  started  slightly  at  this. 

"Do  yon  know  August  Damon?''  she  asked. 

Doctor  Turner  smiled. 

i;  Madame,"  he  said,  "did  you  imagine  that  the  gentle 
man  who  took  your  babe  would  be  ar-y  less  caution R  than 
yourself  in  such  a  transaction?  You  wf-re  known  ns  Mrs. 
Marston,  bxit  frankly  confessed  that  the  name  was  an  as 
sumed  one.  Your  object  was  to  find  the  child  a  good 
home  and  then  drop  out  of  sight  altogether,  so  that  those 
who  took  it  should  never  be  able  to  identify  yon  after 
ward.  Did  you  suppose  it  was  to  be  a  one-sided  affair, 
that  you  were  to  have  all  the  power  and  advantage  in 
your  own  hands? — that  if  you  withheld  your  true  nrme 
they  would  give  you  theirs?" 

Mrs.  Marston,  as  we   must   still   call  her,  flushed  hotly. 


A  RETROSPECTIVE  GLANCE.  199 

"Then  Tamon  was   not   the   true  surname  of  those  peo 
ple,"  she  said,  in  a  crest-fallen  tone. 
"No,  nmdame." 
"What  was  it?" 

Doctor  Turner  did  not  reply  for  a  moment. 
Finally  lie  said  : 

"Mrs.  Marston,  pray  do  not  let  me  keep  you  standing; 
corne  into  my  private  office  and  be  seated  ;  we  can  con 
verse  much  morn  comfortably  there  and  be  free  from 
intrusion,  if  customers  should  come  in.' 

Mrs.  Marston  shivered  slightly,  although  the  day  was 
an  unusually  warm  one.  She  did  not  wish  to  talk  over 
the  long-buried  past,  and  this  recognition  had  been  a  bit 
ter  blow  to  hor ;  but  her  curiosity  regarding  her  child's 
fate  was  so  great  that  she  could  not  resist  the  physician's 
invitation,  and  she  followed  him  to  a  small  room  beauti 
fully  fitted  up  as  a  consulting  office,  at  the  rear  of  the 
store. 

Doctor  Turner  politely  handed  her  a  luxurious  chair, 
and  then  seated  himself  opposite  her. 

"  It  is  doubtless  a  great  surprise  to  you  to  find  me  situ 
ated  as  I  am,"  the  physician  remarked,  by  way  of  open 
ing  the  conversation  ;  "but  some  years  ago  my  health 
gave  out  under  the  strain  of  a  large  and  constantly  in 
creasing  practice,  and  I  was  forced  t~>  relinquish  it,  al 
though  I  still  receive  some  office  patients." 

Mrs.  Marston  merely  bowed  in  reply  to  this  informa 
tion,  her  manner  indicating  that  she  cared  very  little 
about  Doctor  Turner's  personal  history. 

She  glanced  at  August  Damon's  card,  which  she  had 
recovered  when  Doctor  Turner  relinquished  it. 

"You  were  going  to  tell  me  the  real  name  of  the  per 
son  whom  this  card  represents,  I  believe,"  she  said. 

The  druggist  amiled,  yet  bit  his  lip  with  vexation  at 
himself  for  having  intruded  his  own  affairs  upon  her, 
even  for  the  purpose  of  making  her  feel  more  at  her  ease. 
He  might  have  spared  himself  that  trouble. 

"That  will  depend  entirely  upon  your  motive  in  seeking 
them,"  he  replied. 

Mrs.  Marston  flushed  again. 

She  was  an  exceedingly  high-spirited  woman,  one 
could  perceive  at  a  glance,  and  it  galled  her  beyond  ex 
pression  to  have  any  one  make  conditions  for  her  like  this. 

"How  can  it  matter  to  you  what  my  motives  are?"  she 
demanded,  imperiously. 

•'A  physician  has  no  right  to   betray  the   confidence  of 


200  A  HETROSPECTIVE  GLANCE. 

his  patients,"  cal'nly  responded  the  doctor;  "and  unless 
you  Have  some  urgent  re<ison  tor  y(»ur  request,  1  shall  not 
feel  at  liberty  to  give  you  the  information  you  desire." 

"Are  you  their  physician  ?" 

"1  was,  for  a  time.  1.  was  first  called  to  the  child  not 
three  davs  after  it  had  been  given  to  them." 

"How  co.ilcl  you  r-ell  Miat  it  was  the  same  child?  Babes 
of  that  age  look  much  alike." 

"Do  you  suppose  that  a  man  in  my  profession  could  be 
so  lacking  in  ooservution  as  not  to  recognize  a  babe  at 
whose  birth  he  had  officiated,  and  in  which  so  much  of 
unusual  interest  seemed  to  center?"  queried  Doctor 
Turner,  with  a  slight  curl  of  his  lips.  "1  knew  her  the 
moment  I  saw  her  ;  but  they  do  iiot  know,  to  this  day, 
that  I  had  evtii  a  suspicion  that  she  was  not  their  own 
flesh  and  blood." 

"You  never  told  them?"  said  Mrs.  Marston,  quickly. 

"Madame."  returned  the  gentleman,  with  dignity,  "need 
I  remind  you  again  that  an  honorable  physician  never 
betrays  the  confidence  of  his  patients.  You  confided  in 
me  to  a  certain  extent,  and  I  knew  that  you  wished  to 
drop  entirely  out  of  existence,  as  far  as  your  relation  with 
the  child  and  its  adopted  parents  were  concerned.  I  knew 
also  that  they  wished  its  adoption  to  remain  a  secret — 
Consequently  my  lips  were  sealed." 

The  lady's  eyes  drooped  and  all  the  haughtiness  van 
ished  at  these  words. 

"Thank  you,  Doctor  Turner,  for  your  consideration  for 
me,  and  1  am  glad.  too.  that  one  so  conscientious  has 
been  intrusted  with  the  care  of  the  child,"  she  said,  earn 
estly.  "Is — she  still  living?" 

"Yes,  and  as  beautiful  a  young  lady  as  any  one  would 
wish  to  see." 

Mrs.  Marston's  face  clouded,  and  a  sigh  escaped  her 
red  lips.  Her  companion  thought  it  one  or  regret  and 
yearning. 

"  Has  she  been  well  reared  ?     Has  she  had  advantages?" 

"The  very  best  that  money  could  piocureor  fondest 
affection  could  suggest.  Mr.  August— ah — Damon — 
the  doctor  caught  himself  just  in  season,  for  the  gentle 
man's  true  namo  h:»d  almost  escaped  him,  "has  become  a 
rich  min,  and  no  parents  could  have  done  more  for  the 
•welfare  of  their  own  child  than  they  have  done  for 
yours." 

"Are  there  otlun1  children?" 

"No ;  that  in.  they  have  none  of  their  own,  though  I  be- 


A  RETROSPECTIVE  GLAKCK  201 

lieve.  they  havo  been  giving  a  poor  boy  of  great  promise  a 
home  and  an  education  during  the  last  eight  or  ten 
years."  . 

••  Does  she — the  daughter — know  that  she  is  an  adopted 
child?"  Mrs.  Marston  inquired. 

"I  cannot  say  positively  fis  to  that,"  Doctor  Turner  re 
plied.  "She  did  not  know  it  a  fe\v  years  ago,  and  1  imag 
ine  she  has  never  been  told.  I  hope  not,  at  all  events  ;  it 
would  be  better  for  her  never  to  know  it,"  he  concluded, 
with  significant  emphasis. 

"Yes,"  returned  his  companion,  "I  suppose  it  would. 
But  you  have  not  yet  told  me  the  name.'" 

"And  you  have  not  told  me  your  motive  in  wishing  to 
learn  it.'1 

"1  do  not  know  that  I  have  any  special  motive,  other 
than  a  curiosity  and  a  natural  desire  to  know  how  n-y 
child  is  living,  and  how  lite  has  dealt  with  her,"  the  lady 
answered,  musingly.  "I  was  traveling  this  summer  and 
thought  I  would  take  Boston  in  on  my  route,  ascertain,  if 
I  could,  the  residence  of  the  people  10  whom  my  babe 
had  been  given,  and  perhaps  obtain  a  glimpse  of  her." 

"That  is  your  only  motive,  your  only  reason?"  the  doc 
tor  asked,  bending  a  searching  glance  upon  her  handsome 
face. 

"It  is." 

"Then  pardon  me,  madame,  if  I  tell  you  that  I  do  not 
consider  it  of  sufficient  importance  to  gratify  your  de 
sire,"  Doctor  Turner  returned,  gravely.  "1  can  under 
stand  and  sympathize  with  you — it  is  but  natural  that  a 
mother  should  yearn  for  her  child,  even  after  a  separa 
tion  of  more  than  twenty  years;  but  I  know  well  enough 
that  Mr.  Da'non  would  not  have  "withheld  his  true  name 
from  you  unless  he  desired  to  cut  you  off  from  all  future 
knowledge  of  the  child  whom  you  had  given  him.  You 
also  wished  to  drop  entirely  out  of  their  orbit,  to  leave 
no  trace  by  which  they  could  ever  find  yon,  to  learn  the 
secret  you  were  so  careful  to  preserve,  and  they  have 
only  aided  you  by  concealing  their  own  identity.  If  you 
should  put  yourself  in  their  way  and  try  to  see  their 
daughter,  they  could  not  fail  to  recognize  you,  as  I  have 
done,  and  it  would  greatly  disturb  their  peace;  while  i£ 
anything  should  occur  to  arouse  the  young  lady's  suspi 
cions  that  she  does  not  really  belong  to  the  parents  whom 
she  so  fondly  loves,  I  am  mire  it  would  cnupe  her  a  great 
deal  of  unhappinesR,  while  it  might  result  in  inquiries 
mid  discoveries  thftf  would  b<*  embarrassing  to  yourself." 


202  A  HETUOSPECTIVE  (JLAXCE. 

Mrs.  Marston  sat  proudly  erect  at  this,  her  eyes  flash 
ing  w  ami  ugly. 

"Such  inquiries  might  be  embarrassing,  it  is  true,  but 
they  could  result  in  nothing  that  would  bring  discredit 
upon  either  the  child  or  me,"  she  said,  with  conscious  dig 
nity. 

"I  do  not  question  that,  madame,  yet  it  would  seem  to 
be  the  wiser  course  to  let  everything  rest  just  as  it  is," 
said  the  physician,  thoughtfully. 

"Perhaps  you  are  right,"  responded  his  companion, 
•with  a  sigh,  "but  I  would  like  to  see  her." 

"Allow  me  to  ask,  Mrs.  Marston,"  Doctor  Turner  re 
sumed,  after  a  minute  of  silence,  "is  your  husband  still 
living?" 

The  woman  flushed,  a  startled,  painful  crimson,  to  her 
brow  ;  then  she  straightened  herself  haughtily. 

"Yes,  my  husband  is  living,''  she  icily  replied. 

"And,  excuse  me,  but  having  been  your  medical  at 
tendant,  I  feel  something  of  an  interest  in  the  case — how 
•vras  he  affected  by  the — the  loss  of  his  child  ?" 

Doctor  Turner  knew  that  he  was  trespassing  on  danger 
ous  ground,  but,  under  the  circumstances,  he  felt  that  he 
might  be  pardoned  for  asking  the  question. 

"I  do  not  feel  that  you  have  aright  to  interrogate  me 
thus,"  Mrs.  Marston  responded,  with  some  excitement, 
"nevertheless,  I  am  somewhat  in  your  power,  and " 

"Madame,"  interrupted  the  physician,  with  an  air  of 
pride,  "you  need  not  go  on  ;  if  a  little  bit  of  your  life  is 
in  my  keeping,  I  assure  you  it  is  in  the  keeping  of  a  con 
scientious  man.  Whatever  I  may  possess  regarding  any 
patient,  I  could  never  use  it  in  a  dishonorable  way." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  his  companion  said,  instantly  dis 
armed  and  secretly  ashamed  of  her  sudden  anger.  "  I  am 
very  quick,  and  you  touched  a  sensitive  nerve.  Doctor 
Turner,  my  husband  never  knew  of  the  birth  of  that 
child,  and  he  can  never  know  of  it. 

"You  look  at  me  with  horror,"  she  proceeded  hastily, 
as  she  met  his  astonished  gaze,  "  as  if  you  imagine  that  I 
must  haT- .3  been  guilty  of  some  great  crimft  ;  but  I  have 
not,  unless  giving  away  my  babe  was  one.  I  was  a  lawful 
wife,  as  I  convinced  you  at  the  time,  and  the  child  had 
honorable  birth  ;  but  there  were  reasons  which  made  it 
absolutely  necessary  that  I  should  conceal  m.y  maternity 
from  every  one  who  knew  me.  I  did,  from  all  but  my  sis 
ter,  who  has  since  died." 

*'  Ah !  then  'he  lady  who  was  with  you  at  the  time  was 


A  RETROSPECTIVE  QLAKUE.  203 

your  sister.  I  could  not  believe  her  to  be  simply  a  maid," 
the  doctor  interposed. 

Mrs.  Marstou  bit  her  lips  with  vexation  at  having  thus 
thoughtlessly  committed  herself  even  in  so  small  a 
point. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  after  considering  a  moment, "she  alone 
knew  my  secret,  and  I  believed  it  safe  from  all  the  world 
until  I  stumbled  upon  you  to-day." 

"It  is  safe  even  now,"  the  physician  hastened  to  assure 
her.  "  believe  me,  I  shall  never  betray  it — you  may  set 
your  heart  wholly  at  rest  upon  that  point." 

"Thank  you— I  am  very  grateful  for  your  past  silence, 
Doctor  Turner,  and  your  assurance  of  future  secrecy.  I 
am  not  a  heartless  woman,  nor  devoid  of  maternal  affec 
tion,'*  she  went  on,  her  lips  quivering  painfully.  ''I  could 
have  loved  my  baby  as  fondly  as  any  mother  ever  loved 
her  child,  if  I  had  been  allowed  to  open  my  heart  to  her; 
but  I  could  not.  I  had  to  steel  it  aeainst  her.  I  never 
dared  even  to  allow  myself  to  kiss  her  until  the  moment 
they  took  her  away — for  fear  that  I  should  begin  to  love 
her  and  refuse  to  part  with  her.  I  cannot  tell  you  why — I 
can  never  explain  it  to  any  living  being.  I  am  hedged — I 
have  always  been  hedged  about  by  circumstances  that 
made  it  impossible,  and  as  long  as  I  live  I  must  carry  the 
secret  locked  within  my  own  heart." 

She  stopped  for  a  moment,  overcome  by  the  sad  memo 
ries  and  emotions  which  this  retrospective  glance  aroused, 
while  the  good  doctor  felt  more  genuine  sympathy  than 
he  had  ever  experienced  for  her  over  that  mysterious  oc 
currence  so  many  years  ago. 

"I  will  try  to  be  content  with  what  you  have  told  me 
to-day,"  she  resumed,  presently,  "although  it  wns  my  in 
tention,  when  I  came  here,  to  see  for  myself  how  my 
child  had  been  reared  I  am  glad  to  know  that  she  has 
been  tenderly  shielded  by  parental  love — that  life  lias 
been  made  bright  and  beautiful  for  her  ;  may  it  ever  he 
so,  and  perhaps,  some  time,  in  the  great  future,  whore 
there  can  be  no  secrets,  I  may  be  allowed  to  recognize  nnd 
love  the  daughter  which  stern  fate  decreed  I  could  not 
have  in  this  life." 

Tears  actually  arose  to  the  physician's  eyes  at  this  little 
glimpse  of  the  innermost  sanctuary  of  the  beautiful  wo 
man's  heart ;  but  he  marveled  more  than  ever  at  the  ter 
rible  secret  which  must  have  well-nigh  blighted  her  early 
life. 

She  looked  up,  c^uc-ht  his  sympathetic  glance,  and  was 


204:  GEOFFREY  FINDS  A  RKLTC. 

instantly   the  proud,  self-possessed   woman  of   the  world 
again. 

u  And  now,  Doctor  Turner,"  she  said,  rising  and  drawing; 
her  elegant  lace  mantle  about  her  shapely  shoulders,  "I 
trust  wo  may  never  meet  again.  If  chance  should  throw 
us  together  in  the  presence  of  others,  I  be<r,  as  a  personal 
favor,  that  you  will  not  recognize  me  without  a  formal 
introduction." 

"I  will  not,  madame  ;  and  for  the  sake  of  your  peace  of 
mind,  I,  too,  hope  that  our  paths  may  never  ugain  cross," 
he  replied. 

lie  accompanied  her  to  the  door,  where  they  bow^d  po 
litely  and  formally  to  each  other,  and  then  the  handsome 
woman  swept  out  upon  the  street,  as  composed  and  self- 
possessed  as  if  she  had  merely  been  purchasing  some  tri 
fling  article  for  th«  toilet,  instead  of  rolling  away  the 
stone  from  a  sepulcher  where,  for  more  than  twenty 
years,  a  corroding  secret  had  lain  concealed. 

Doctor  Turner  went  hack  to  his  private  office,  where  he 
sat  a  long  time,  musing  over  the  wonderful  mystery 
which  had  stood  the  test  of  nearly  a  quarter  of  a  century, 
and  wondering  if  he  should  ever  learn  the  solution  to  it. 

"It  was  the  most  perplexing,  yet  romantic,  incident 
connected  with  my  whole  life  as  a  physician."  he  mur 
mured.  "If  I  could  but  get  at  the  inside  history  of  it  I 
could  write  a  book  worth  reading. 

"It  was  almost  too  bad,"  he  added,  some  minutes  after 
ward,  "not  to  tell  her  about  Huntress — it  is  possible  no 
harm  would  havo  resulted  from  the  knowledge  :  but  if 
there  had  I  should  have  blamed  myself.  It  was  better 
not." 

He  watched  the  passers  in  the  street  for  several  days, 
hoping  to  get  another  glimpse  at  his  visitor. 

But  he  did  not — he  never  saw  her  again. 


CHAPTER  XXXTI. 

GEOFFREY   FINDS   A  RELIC. 

Geoffrey  Huntress  arrived  in  Santa  Fe  late  one  even- 
Ing,  and  in  the  mid^r  of  n  driving  storm,  about  a  week 
after  parting:  from  Jack  and  Margery  Henlv. 

Ho  was  glad  to  peek  shelter  in  the  nearest  public  house, 
which  proved  to  be  an  adobe,  and  was  kept  by  a  good- 


GEOFFREY  FINDS  A  RELIC.  905 

naturcd  Spaniard  and  his  wife,  both  of  whom  could  speak 
English  passably  well. 

Everything  was  in  the  most  primitive  style,  yet  com 
fortable,  and  the  house  was  a  most  acceptable  refuge 
from  the  raging  temnest  without. 

Geoffrey  slept  well,  and  awoke  to  find  a  bright,  beauti 
ful  morning  breaking,  and  all  nature  fresh  and  attractive 
in  its  newly  washed  attire. 

He  ate  heartily  of  the  savory  breakfast  that  had  been 
prepared  for  him,  and  then  started  forth  in  search  of  the 
post-office  to  learn  what  he  could  regarding  the  history  of 
Lock  Box  43. 

He  was  somewhat  disappointed  to  find  that  the  post 
master  was  a  man  only  about  thirty -five  years  of  age, 
and,  upon  inquiry,  learned  that  he  had  served  in  that  ca 
pacity  not  more  than  five  or  six  years. 

Of  course  he  knew  at  once  that  he  could  tell  him  noth 
ing  that  he  wished  to  know,  and  he  began  to  fear  that  his 
journey  hither  had  been  all  for  naught. 

"Who  was  postmaster  here  before  you  received  your  ap 
pointment?"  he  inquired,  after  making  some  general  talk 
about,  the  city. 

"Old  Abe  Brown,  sir,  and  I  only  hope  I  may  be  as  lucky 
as  he  was;  he  held  it  for  more'n  fifteen  years." 

Geoffrey  felt  his  courage  rise  at  this  information. 

If  he  could  only  finl  old  Abe  Brown,  doubtless  he  could 
tell  him  something  interesting  about  Lock  Boz  43. 

"Is  he  living?1'  he  asked. 

"Yes.  sir.  and  hale  and  hearty,  too,"  and  going  to  the 
door,  the  obliging  postmaster  pointed  out  the  rude  dwell 
ing  which  his  predecessor  occupied. 

Geoffrey  at,  once  bent  his  steps  thither,  and  was  soon 
knocking  at  Mr.  Brown's  door. 

"Come  in,"  was  the  somewhat  gruff,  but  hearty  invita 
tion,  and  pushing  open  the  door,  which  was  already  aiar, 
Geoffrey  saw  an  old  man  of  perhaps  sixty  seated  on  a 
rudo  bench,  weaving  hats  from  a  bundle  of  touch  gra«s 
that  lay  beside  him,  while  his  wife,  a  woman  somewhat 
younger,  sat  near  him.  sewing  bands  around  nnd  putting 
coarse  linings  into  a  pile  of  finished  hat«. 

"Come  in,  stronger,  come  in  !"  repeated  the  man,  as 
Geoffrey  paused  upon  the  threshold:  "don't  stand  on 
ceremony,  'ennse  we  can't,  for  we've  got  to  get  this  cn^e 
of  hats  off  before  dinner,  and  we'll  hnv^  to  work  right 
smart  to  do  it.  too.  Have  a  chair,  sir  ;  guess,  though,  you 
don't  belong  in  these  parts,"  and  the  old  man  gave  the 


20fi  GEOFFREY  FIXDS  A  RELIC. 

younger  one  a   searching  glance  from  a  pair  of  keen   eyes 
that  gleamed  benoath  his  sha.ggy,  overhanging  brows. 

"No,  sir,  I  do  not  belong  here;  I  am  a  stranger," 
Geoffrey  answered,  as  he  entered  the  room  and  took  the 
chair  indicates].  "I  was  directed  hither  to  make  inquiries 
regarding  some  circumstances  connected  with  your  serv 
ices  as  postmaster  several  years  ago." 

"Eh  !"  ejac:;lalrd  Mr.  Bro\vn,  in  an  astonished  tone, 
and  suspending  his  employment  to  eye  his  visitor  with 
an  indignant  glance,  while  his  wife  turned  a  pale,  startled 
face  to  him. 

Geoffrey  smiled,  as  he  realized  that  they  imagined  he 
had  come  in  an  official  capacity. 

"My  inquiries  are  of  a  strictly  private  nature,  and  re 
late  fo  a  gentleman  for  whom  lam  searching,"  he  ex 
plained  to  relieve  their  anxiety. 

"All  right, ;  fire  away  tnen,  lad,"  returned  Mr.  Brown, 
coolly  resuming  his  work.  "I  thought  if  them  chaps  at 
Washington  had  sent  any  one  down  here  at  this  late  day 
to  rake  over  old  coals  it  was  mighty  queer,  for  there 
wasn't,  a  single  dts-crip-ancy  from  the  time  I  went  into 
the  office  till  I  came  out.  Old  Abe  Brown  is  honest  if  he 
ain't  handsome,"  he  concluded,  with  a.  merry  twinkle  in 
his  eye. 

"I  do  not  doubt  it.  sir,"  Geoffrey  replied,  with  a  quiet 
laugh,  "  but  I  wish  to  ask  you  if  you  remember  a  man 
who  hired  Lock  Box  43  for  several  vears  in  succession 
during  your  term,  and  who  had  his  letters,  or  at  least, 
some  of  them,  directed  simplv  with  that  inscrip 
tion  ?" 

"Yes,  sir,  I  do  remember  him — a  tall,  handsome  chap, 
with  blue  eyes,  and  brown  hair,  and  he  had  the  finest  beard 
1  ever  saw  on  a  mnn,  the  first  time  I  saw  him  ;  he  had  it 
all  shaved  off,  though,  after  a  while.  I  say,  stranger,  I 
reckon  he  must  have  been  something  to  you,  for  I'm 
bless'd  if  you  don't  look  like  him  !" 

The  man  dropped  his  hat.  upon  this  discovery,  and 
leaned  forward  for  a  better  view  of  Geoffrey. 

"Go  on,  if  you  please,"  the  young  man  said,  briefly. 

"Well,  as  I  snid,  I  remember  him  :  I  don't  often  forget 
anybody  that  I've  ever  had  any  dealings  with,"  Mr. 
Brown  resumed.  "He  was  a  generous  follow,  too :  had 
plenty  of  money,  and  scattered  it  right  and  left  like  a 
prince.  It  wn,s  r>  curious  conceit,  though,  his  having  bis 
letters  sent  j-ist  to  the  box — some  of  'em  ;  they  didn't  all 
come  that  way." 


OEOFtKEY  F1XDS  A  RELIC.  207 

"No?"  cried  Geoffrey,  eagerly.  "To  whom  were  they 
directed?  What  was  his  name?" 

"Well,  now,''  said  the  old  man,  again  laying  down  his 
hat,  and  scratching  his  head  meditatively.  " I  shouldn't 
wonder  if  you'd  got  me  this  time.  I'm  pretty  good  at 
spotting  a  face,  but  when  it  comes  to  names  and  figures 
— un'ess  somebody  happens  to  be  owing  me" — he  inter 
posed,  with  a  sly  smile,  "I  don't  amount  to  much.  'Pears 
to  me.  though,  his  first  name  was  William — William — 
hum  !  I  don't  know — William  something;  and  there  was 
a  general  or  captain — I  can't  remember  which — tacked 
on  to  it  besides." 

"Was  his  last  name  Dale,  do  you  think?"  Geoff  re  j 
asked. 

Mr.  Brown  shook  his  head  doubtfully. 

"I  couldn't  swear  'twas,  or  'twasn't,"  he  said.  "Some 
how,  that  don't  strike  me  as  sounding  just  natural — I'\e 
a  notion  there  was  more  to  it." 

"I  am  very  anxious  to  know  it,  and  would  be  willing  to 
give  a  great  deal  to  be  sure  of  it.  Could  you  find  out  in 
any  way  what  it  was?"  the  young  man  inquired,  anx 
iously. 

"I  don't  beieve  there's  a  single  soul  in  Santa  Fe  to  day 
who  was  here  as  long  ago  as  that,  except  my  wife  here. 
Maria,  do  you  remember  that  handsome  gentleman  who 
used  to  have  Lock  Box  43?"  the  old  man  asked,  turning  to 
his  wife. 

"I  used  to  see  him  now  and  then  when  I  helped  yon.  in 
the  office,  but  I've  forgotten  his  name,  if  I  ever  heard  it," 
the  woman  replied,  in  a  quiet  tone.  "But,"  she  added, 
a  moment  later,  as  if  some  thought  had  suddenly  oc 
curred  to  her,  "didn't  you  find  something  once  that  he 
lost  ?" 

"Lor'!  yes;  so  I  did.  But  I'd  never  thought  of  it 
again  if  you  hadn't  mentioned  it,  and  there's  something 
marked  on  it,  too.  Perhaps  that'll  tell  the  young  man 
what  he  wants  to  know." 

Mr.  Brown  laid  down  his  work,  and  rising,  turned  to 
ward  an  old-fashioned  secretary  that  stood  in  one  corner 
of  the  room. 

But  he  suddenly  stopped,  and  looked  searchingly  at 
Geoffrey. 

"I  hope,  if  you  find  out  what  you  want  to  know  here, 
it  ain't,  goinrr  to  get  tho  gentleman  into  any  trouble."  he 
said  ;  "he  wn«»  a  pood  friend  to  me,  and  I  should  hate  to 
do  him  an  ill  turn." 


208  GEOFFREY  FINDS  A  RELIC. 

"You  need  not  fear."  Geoffrey  answered,  thinking  it 
best  to  deal  frankly  with  these  honest  people;  "the  man 
was  my  father — at  least,  I  have  stroner  reasons  for  believ 
ing  so;  he  disappe»red  several  years  ago,  and  my  object 
in  coming  to  you  is  simply  to  try  to  get  some  clew  that 
•will  help  me  to  trace  him." 

"I'm  afraid,  sir,  you've  come  to  a  poor  place  to  find 
out  very  much,''  Mr.  Brown  remarked,  and  apparently 
satisfied  with  his  visitor's  explanation. 

He  proceeded  to  the  secretary,  opened  one  of  its  draw 
ers,  and  took  an  old  leather  wallet  from  it. 

Unstrapping  this,  he  laid  it  open  before  him,  and  after 
searching  son  e  time  in  its  various  pockets,  he  drew  forth 
something  wrapped  in  hrown  paper. 

This  he  carried  to  Geoffrey,  and  laid  it  in  his  hand. 

"There  you  have  it,  and  it's  the  be^t  I  can  do  for  you," 
he  said. 

The  young  man  quickly  removed  the  paper,  and  found 
a  portion  of  a  golden  charm  or  emblem  ;  in  the  form  of  a 
knight-templar's  cross;  very  handsomely  enameled  and 
engraven. 

It  had  been  broken  diagonally  acrops. 
the  left  and  lower  arms  comprising  the 
portion  which  the  postmaster  had  found. 

Geoffrey  turned  it  over  and  found  Ibe 
name  "William" — all  but  the  last  letter 
• — engraved  on  the  back,  something  after 
the  fashion  of  the  accompanying  diagram. 

The  "m."  and  probably  the  surname  of  the  owner  was 
to  be  found  on  the  other  half  of  the  cross,  wherever  that 
might  be. 

The  roung  man  sighed  wearily,  for  if  this  was  all  the 
information  which  be  was  to  obtain  from  his  visit  to 
Santa  Fe,  he  would  be  as  much  in  the  dark  as  ever. 

"Where  did  you  find  this?"  he  asked,  at  length,  turn 
ing  to  Mr.  Brown. 

"On  the  floor,  just  Tinder  his  box." 

"Was  he  in  the  habit  of  wearing  an  emblem  of  this 
kind  ?" 

"Yes,  sir;  he  bar!  a  fine  one  on  hie  watch-chain,  but  it 
•wasn't  like  that."  said  Mr.  Brown. 

"Then  how  do  you  know  that  he  lost  this?  It  might 
have  belonged  to  some  one  el^e.'* 

"No  ;  I  am  sure  it  was  his,  for  I  found  it  just  after  he'd 
been  into  the  office  to  look  after  his  letters,  and  there 


G  EOFFR  ET  F1XDS  A  R  EL  1C.  209 

hadn't  been  another  soul  in  the  room  for  nigh  an  hour.  I 
reckon  it  was  one  of  them  things  like  what  he  wore,  that 
had  been  broken,  and  lie  tucked  it  into  his  pockec  and  it 
fell  out  when  lie  took  out  his  keys  to  unlock  his  box,"  Mr. 
Brown  explained. 

"That  might  have  been  the  way  of  it,"  Geoffrey  said, 
thoughtfully. 

"I  went  to  the  door  to  call  him  back,"  the  old  gentle 
man  continued;  "but  he'd  got  out  of  sight,  so  I  put  it 
away,  thinking  I'd  give  it  to  him  the  next  time  he  came, 
and  it  you'll  believe  it,  I've  never  set  eyes  ou  him  from 
that  day  to  this.1' 

"Did  he  never  come  again?"  Geoffrey  asked,  surprised. 

"Yes,  twice,  though  there  was  a  good  while  beuveeu ; 
but,  as  it  chanced,  I  was  away  both  times,  and  or  course 
the  boy  I  hired  to  help  me  and  take  my  place  at  such 
times — the  same  one  that's  there  now — didn't  know  him. 
The  last  visit  he  made  he  gave  up  his  key?." 

"How  long  apco  was  that?" 

"That  must  have  been  as  many  a«  fifteen  years  ago.  I 
•hotildsay;  I  can't  just  remember,  though,"  replied  Mr. 
Brown. 

Geoffrey  reasoned  that  probably  his  father  had  visited 
the  place  while  on  his  way  back  from  California,  after  he 
had  been  to  make  inquiries  regarding  his  own  mysterious 
disappearance,  and  having  despaired  of  ever  gaining  any 
knowledge  of  him  through  Lock  Box  43,  had  surrendered 
his  keys. 

"Dili    he  ever  reside  here  in  Santa  Fe?"  he  asked. 

"I  don't  think  he  did,  sir — he  always  looked  »s  if  he 
came  from,  a  distance,  and  he  didn't  come  regular,  either. 
I  used  to  think  he  was  up  among  the  mines  in  the  moun 
tains." 

"Did  he  receive  many  letters  through  this  office?" 

"At  first  he  did,  but  not  more'n  three  or  four  the  last 
year  or  two,  and  I  was  to  let  them  lay  until  they  were 
come  for.  When  he  come  last  he  said  he  was  goin'  to 
leave  this  country  altogether." 

"It  is  very  strange,"  nu.sed  Geoffrey,  ,is  he  sat  turning 
over  that  little  piece  of  gold  and  enamel. 

"If  ib  could  but  speak,"  ho  thought,  "all  my  trouble 
and  search  would  be  over." 

"Will  you  sell  me  this  little  relic?"  he  asked,  at  last, 
turning  to  the  ex-postmaster. 

"Bl^ssyou!  no,  sir.  I  shouldn't  think  of  selling  it  to 
anybody ;  but  if  you're  that  man's  son,  as  you  say,  it's 


210  GEOFFREY  FINDS  A  RELIC. 

yours    by   right,    and   you   can    have   it  and   welcome." 

Geoffrey  thanked  ihe  honest  old  gentleman  hearuiy  for 
it  and  his  kindness  in  answering  his  inquiries,  and  then 
arose  to  take  his  leave. 

lie  picked  up  one  of  the  hats  that   Mrs.  Brown  had  just 
completed,  asking  if  she  \\ould  make  him  one  and  have  it 
read  v  by  the  time  he  got  around  to  Santa  Fe  again. 
„    Sue  said  she  would,  and  at  his  request  named  the  price. 

Geoffrey  dropped  a  golden  coin  into  her  hand,  remark 
ing,  with  a  SMiile,  that  she  could  give  him  the  change 
when  he  came  for  the  hat,  or  if  he  didn't  come  by  the  end 
of  six  weeks  she  would  be  entitled  to  the  whole  of  ic.  He 
took  tiiis  way  to  make  these  good  people  a  little  present 
without  wounding  their  feelings,  for  he  had  no  intention 
of  ever  returning  to  Santa  Fe. 

He  WHS  very  much  depressed  by  his  failure  to  obtain 
any  definite  information  regarding  his  father,  and  he 
found  it  hard  to  be  reconciled  to  the  fact  that  the  ex-poet- 
master  could  not  remember  the  name  which  it  was  so  im 
portant  he  should  learn. 

He  attached  v«ry  little  significance  to  the  finding  of  the 
broken  cross,  for  it  proved  nothing;  still  he  put  it  care 
fully  away,  resolving  to  keep  it  as  a  curious  relic. 
-  But  it  was  destined,  insignificant  as  it  seemed,  to  play 
an  important  part  in  the  chain  of  evidence  that  was 
eventually  to  prove  his  identity. 

It  was  the  middle  of  September  when  he  reached  Sara 
toga  again,  \\here  he  found  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Huntress  and 
Gladys,  all  impatient  over  his  long  absence,  and  over 
joyed  at  his  return.  They  had  remained  there  far  beyond 
the  date  they  had  intended,  and  they  had  only  waited  for 
his  coining  to  go  home. 

They  left  immediately  and  arrived  in  Brooklyn  the 
twentieth  of  the  month,  and  were  all  delighted  to  be  be 
neath  (heir  own  "vine  and  fig  tree"  once  more. 

When  Geoffrey  told  Mr.  Huntress  how  fruitless  had 
been  his  search,  except  for  what  he  had  learned  from  the 
Henlys,  he  replied,  as  he  laid  his  hand  affectionately  on 
the  young  man's  shoulder  : 

"  For  your  sake,  Geoff,  I  am  sorry,  for  I  know  that  you 
are  sensitive  regarding  the  subject  of  your  parentage; 
but  for  rny  part,  my  boy,  I  am  content,  for  I  am  free  to 
own  that  I  should  feel  a  trifle  jealous  of  any  other  man 
who  should  claim  you  and  occupy  the  place  of  a  father  to 
ward  you." 

All   this   was  very  pleasant  to  Geoffrey,  but   he  knew 


GEOFFREY  FINDS  A  KEL1C.  211 

that  nothing  would  ever  satisfy  him  until  he  could  learn 
the  whole  secret;  and  he  was  now  convinced  that  there 
was  a  carefully  guarded  secret  regarding  his  birth. 

The  week  following  the  return  of  the  family  to  Brook 
lyn,  Mr.  Huntress  came  home  from  his  office  somewhat 
earlier  than  usual,  and  drawing  Geoffrey  into  the  library, 
he  said  : 

"Geoff,  you  have  had  a  good  deal  to  say  about  business 
this  summer;  how  would  you  like  to  get  into  something 
right  away  ?" 

The  young  man's  face  was  instantly  all  aglow. 

"First  rate,"  he  replied,  eager!}-.  "I  don't  care  how 
soon  I  begin  to  do  something  for  myself.  I've  been  an 
idler  long  enough."' 

'"An  idler  !'  good  gracious  !  Geoff,  I  wonder  what  your 
idea  of  work  is,  if  you  have  been  idle  during  the  last 
four  years !"  exclaimed  Mr.  Huntress,  with  elevated 
brows. 

"Well,  I  mean  that  I've  been  dependent  lonjr  enough," 
Geoffrey  corrected. 

"Now,  my  boy,  you  couldn't  hurt  me  worse  than  to  talk 
like  that.  I  have  been  paid  a  dozen  times  over,  for  all 
you  have  co«t  me,  in  the  pride  I've  taken  in  you,"  his 
friend  replied,  reproachfully. 

"My  debt  is  a  heavy  one  all  the  same,  Uncle  August- 
one  that  I  can  never  pay — though  I  shall  never  cease  to 
be  grateful  for  your  kindness.  But  about  this  business 
prospect,  what  is  itf 

"Well,  you  see,  tho  firm  wants  me  to  go  to  Europe,"  be 
gan  Mr.  Huntress,  u  to  look  after  some  of  our  interests 
there,  which  have  been  causing  us  some  anxiety  of  late  ; 
but  I  have  a  perfect  horror  of  the  Sf  a,  and  can't  make  up 
my  mind  to  take  the  voyage.  No  one  else  can  be  spared, 
and  so,  if  I  cannot  get  a  substitute,  I  suppose  I  shall 
have  to  sere vr  my  courage  tip  tt>  it  somehow.  Now,  any 
man  of  ordinary  intelligence  can  transact  the  business — 
the  chief  requisites  are  energy,  honesty,  and  interest — 
and  I  want  you  to  go  in  my  place,  Geoff.  Your  business 
career  and  your  salnry  shall  commence  from  the  moment 
you  give  me  your  decision." 

Geoffrey  was  all  enthusiasm  at  the  proposition,  most 
delightful  to  him  both  as  regarded  business  r.r;d  the  Euro 
pean  trip,  which  hud  always  been  a  coveted  pleasure. 

kl  should  like  the  trip,  and  m<>rf»  than  nil.  I  .-hould  lifce 
tho  business,  if  yon  think  me  competent  to  tr;-,  ::sact  it," 
he  said.  "  Here  I  have  been  racking  my  br.n  :•  all  sum- 


212  'A  WEDDING  IN  PKOSPJSCT. 

mer  to  try  to  think  of  something  to  set  myself  about,  and 
How  it  comes  to  me  without  aw  effort." 

"You'll  find  that  it  will  require  effort  enough  before 
you  get  through,"  returned  Mr.  Huntress,  smiling  ;  ''but 
it  is  a  great  relief  to  my  mind  to  have  you  willing  to  un 
dertake  it.  The  only  drawback,"  he  added,  growing  seri 
ous,  "is  that  Gladys  may  object  to  your  running  off  in 
this  unceremonious  style,  antt  for  such  a  long  trip  ;  it 
•would  take  five  or  six  months  to  do  all  we  want  done." 

Geoffrey's  face  fell  at  this. 

In  the  enthusiasm  of  the  moment  over  having  some 
real  business,  he  had  not  thought  of  this  separation,  and 
be  knew  well  enough  that  Gladys  would  be  very  much  op 
posed  to  it. 

"True,"  he  began,  and  then  stopped. 

11  Gladys  will  surely  oppose  it  with  all  her  will,"  said 
Mr.  Huntress,  observing  him  closely. 

Geoffrey  made  no  reply,  he  was  schooling  himself  to  do 
his  duty.  He  believed  that  he  had  no  right  to  refuse  this 
golden  opportunity. 

" I  wonder,"  mused  Mr.  Huntress,  a  sly  smile  curling 
the  corners  of  his  mouth,  "how  it  would  do  to  let  Gladys 
go  with  you  ;  she  has  always  been  sighing  for  European 
travel."' 

Geoffrey  sat  erect  in  his  chair,  as  if  suddenly  galvan 
ized,  and  shot  a  look  of  astonishment  at  bis  companion. 

"Uncle  August!  you  know  that  wouldn't  do  at  all,  un 
less — Aunt  Alice  should  accompany  us,"  he  said,  in  con 
fusion. 

Mi .  Huntress  burst  into  a  hearty  laiigh. 

"I  imagine  it  could  be  managed  without  depriving  me 
of  my  wife  as  well  as  my  daughter.  How  would  it  do  to 
liave  that  young  lady  go  along  as — as  Mrs.  Geoffrey  Pale 
Huntress  ?" 


CHAPTER  XXXITI. 

A  WEDDING    IN    PROSPECT. 

At  that  moment  a  servant  appeared  at  the  door  and 
was  about  to  enter  upon  some  trifling  errand.  Seeing  the 
eager,  intent  look  upon  the  faces  of  both  men,  she  quietly 
withdrew,  unobserved. 

Geoffrey  sat  up,  amazed. 

"Surely  you  cannot  mean  that — that  Gladys  is  to  go  as 
my  wife  i"  he  exclaimed,  flushing  hotly. 


A  WEDD1SG  IN  PROSPECT.  213 

"And  why  not?  You  expect  to  marry  Gladys  some 
tinie,"  was  the  calm  reply. 

"Yes,  I  hope  so,  Uncle  August ;  but  I  am  not  now  in  a 
position  to  properly  take  care  of  a  wite." 

"But  we  are  going  to  pay  you  a  good  salary  and  defiay 
your  traveling  expenses  also,  it  you  go  abroad  for  us." 
said  Mr.  Huntress.  "  You  will  have  to  be  aw  a  3*  for  sev 
eral  months,  and  I  know  that  Gladys  will  grieve  sadly 
over  the  separation.  I  have  given  the  subject  a  good  deal 
of  thought;  and  I  have  talked  it  over  with  mother. 
Gladys  wants  a  trip  abroad,  we  want  her  to  have  it,  too, 
and  neither  of  us  feels  like  crossing  the  ocean  ;  therefore 
we  have  decided  that  the  best  arrangement,  for  all  parties, 
will  be  to  have  a  wedding  and  send  you  two  off  together 
on  a  bridal  trip.  Of  course  we  shall  rr.iss  our  daughter — 
we  shall  miss  you  both  for  that  matter;  but  the  earlier 
you  go  the  sooner  we  shall  have  you  back  again.  "What 
do  you  think  of  the  proposition  *" 

"Nothing  coul'i  give  me  greater  happiness  than  to  have 
my  dearest  hopes  realized  in  tins  unexpected  manner; 
but  I  had  made  up  my  mind  not  to  claim  the  fulfillment 
of  Gladys1  promise  to  me  until  I  could  make  a  place  for 
myself  in  the  world,  and  provide  a  generous  support  for 
her,''  Geoffrey  replied,  with  still  heightened  color. 

"Nonsense!"  began  Mr.  Huntress,  and  then  j-uddenly 
checked  himself.  "No,  it  isn't  nonsense,  either,"  he  added, 
"such  a  resolve  was  both  a  wise  and  a  noble  one,  ard 
worthy  of  you,  Geoff.  Under  different  circumstances  I 
fih  on  Id  feel  that  it  would  be  wiser  for  you  to  wait  i  ntil 
you  were  established  in  some  profitable  business.  Seme- 
body,  however,  must  go  abroad  for  the  firm.  I  do  not 
want  to,  neither  of  the  other  partners  can  leave,  and  so 
we  have  agreed  to  send  some  one  in  my  place.  Besides 
this,  I  am  what  would  be  termed  a  rich  man,  thouuh  I 
haven't  as  mu<-h  as  the  Astors  or  Vanderbilts,  and  all 
that  I  have  will  some  day  belong  to  Gladys — except  a  lit- 
'tle  slice  that  I  had  made  up  my  mind  to  lay  aside  for  >  cii 
— and  she  may  as  well  begin  to  reap  the  benefit  of  it  now. 
I  want  her  to  see  tho  old  country  :  she  is  just  fresh  from 
school,  and  in  the  right  trim  and  mood  to  enjoy  it;  she 
would  grieve  and  mops  to  have  you  go  and  leave  her  be 
hind,  so  I  want  you  to  go  together.  I  know  that  you 
would  have  a  jolly  time  of  it.  So  wo  will  have  a  littlo 
knot  tied  beforehand,  to  make  everything  all  right  and 
proper,  and  then  you  may  emov  your  honeymoon  tc 
your  heart's  content." 


211  A   WEDDIX&  IN  PROSPECT. 

Geoffrey's  heart  was  beating  with  great,  heavy  throbs 
of  joy  over  these  plans. 

No  thought  of  any  such  delightful  scheme  had  for  an 
instant  entered  his  mind  ;  indeed,  he  had  feared  that  it 
would  be  a  long  time  before  he  should  feel  that  he  had  a 
right  to  ask  Gladys  to  be  his  wife,  and  now  every  obstacle 
had  been  removed,  and  an  easy  path  to  the  very  summit 
of  his  hopes  laid  out  for  him. 

"Well,  Geoff,1'  continued  Mr.  Huntress,  who  had  been 
watching  him  while  something  of  this  was  passing 
through  his  brain,  "what  lies  heavy  on  your  mind  now? 
You  look  as  somber  as  if  I  had  beem  plotting  to  separate  a 
pair  of  lovers,  instead  of  giving  them  to  each  other  with 
my  fondest  blessing." 

Geoffrey  looked  up  with  gleaming  eyes. 

"lam  anything:  but 'somber'  over  your  proposition, 
Uncle  August.  I  am  simply  trying  to  realize  my  great 
happiness,1'  he  snid,  in  a  voice  that  vibrated  with  joy; 
"but  what  will  Gladys  herself  say  to  this  plan  ?" 

"Go  ask  her,  my  boy.  I'll  bet  a  big  apple  she  won't  say 
no,"  returned  the  gentleman,  with  a  sly  wink  and  a 
chuckle.  "Hold  on  a  minute,  though,  Geoff,"  he  added,  as 
the  young  man  sprang  to  his  feet  to  obey  him,  "I  want 
to  tell  you  a  l\ttle  more  about  the  business  part  of  the 
plan,  before  you  get  immersed  in  the  love-ly  part  of  it. 
YouVe  three  months  yet  before  you,  as  we  do  not  want 
you  to  sail  before  the  last  of  December,  or  the  first  of 
January — rather  cold  weather  for  a  pleasure  trip  across 
the  Atlantic;,  eh  ?"  and  he  shivered  at  the  thought ;  "  but 
we  can't  have  everything  just  as  we  want  it.  Another 
thing;  owing  to  some  details  connected  with  our  Boston 
house,  you  will  bo  obliged  to  sail  from  that  city  instead 
of  going  direct  from  New  York." 

"  We  occasionally  have  some  very  pleasant  weather  in 
January  ;  perhaps  the  fates  will  be  propitious  and  give  us 
a  pleasant  passage,"  said  Geoffrey,  smiling  ;  "besides,  I 
think  T  have  heard  that  some  of  those  Boston  steamers 
are  fully  as  comfortable  and  safe  as  those  running  from 
New  York." 

"Well,  comfort  yourself  all  you  can,  my  boy.  I  don't 
envy  you,  however."  retorted  the  elder  gentleman,  with 
a  grimace.  "Meantime,"  he  continued,  "we  shall  want 
you  over  at  the  office  to  receive  instructions  and  gnin  a 
little  knowledge  regarding  your  duties  on  the  ot':er 
si  do." 

'' T  do. not  care  how   soon  you  set  me  at  work,"  Geoffrey 


IX  PftoSFEVT.  215 

eagerly  replied,  for  he  was  longing  with  all  his  heart  to 
become  a  man  of  business,  and  to  feel  that  he  \\  as  really 
doing  something  toward  providing  for  his  bride. 

"I  imagine  that  we  shall  all  have  enough  to  do  if  there 
is  to  be  a  wedding."  said  Mr.  Huntress,  smiling,  "for 
mother  and  I  want  to  marry  our  only  daughter  off  in  good 
shape,  you  know.  There,  that  is  all  just  now  ;  you  may 
go  and  find  out  how  Gladys  feels  about  it.1' 

Geoffrey  departed  with  a  bounding  heart,  yet  hardly  able  to 
realize  the  good  fortune  that  Lad  so  unexpectedly  fallen  to  his 
lot. 

He  fonnd  Gladys  in  the  music-room,  running  through  some 
Dew  pieces  which  lie  liad  purchased  for  her  the  day  before. 

He  went,  np  to  her.  cnptnred  <he  two  small  hands  that  were 
evoking  such  sweet  strains  from  the  piano,  and  drew  her  to  a 
small  sofa,  that  stood  near. 

"My  darling.  I  have  a  very  important  communication  to  make 
to  yon,"  he  said,  bending  toward  her  and  fondly  touching  ber 
forehead  with  his  lips. 

"  '  Very  important?'  "  she  repeated,  archly.  "You  look  as  if  it 
was  very  pleasant,  too." 

"Tt  is  to  me,  and  I  hope  it  will  prove  the  same  to  yon.  What 
do  yon  suppose  onr  paterfamilias  IIPS  been  proposing  to  me  this 
morning?"  the  young  man  asked,  with  a  luminous  face. 

The  beautiful  girl  thought  a  moment  before  replying,  the 
quick  color  leaping  to  her  cheeks. 

'•I  believe  I  can  gup*n  it!"  she  exclaimed,  clasping  her  hands 
•with  a  gesture  of  delight.  "Oh,  Geoffrey,  is  he  poing  to  take 
us  all  to  Europe?  That  is  it!"  she  added,  exultantly.  "I  know 
by  yonr  tell-tale  face.  How  perfectly  charming!" 

Geoffrey  smiled   wisely. 

"You  have  guessed  too  much  and  too  little,  my  sunbeam,"  he 
said. 

"What  a  paradoxical  statement,  my  learned  Bachelor  of 
Arts!  I  expected  better  things  of  you,"  retorted  Gladys, 
merrily. 

"You  have  yet,  to  find  my  statement.  t7-ue,  in  spite  of  fhe 
seeming  paradox."  he  replied,  with  mock  dignity.  "Somebody 
is  going  to  Europe — we  are  not  all  going,  however." 

"Ol>.  Geoff!  you  are  not  to  be  left  at  home,  are  yon?"  cried 
his  betrothed,  in  a  disappointed  tone,  her  face  paling  at  the 
thought. 

"Gu^ss  again,  my  Indy,"  he  said,  teas..:<crly. 

"Well,  I  know  that  papa  would  not  go  without  mamma,  and  I 
am  snre  she  would  never  cross  the  ocean  without  him,  and  they 
certninly  would  not  lake  such  a  trip  and  leave  me  behind,"  re 
sponded  Gladys,  with  a  puzzled  air. 

"  'Plato,  thou  reasoned  well,' "  quoted  Geoffrey,  an   amused 


216  A   WEDDING  IN  PROSPECT. 

twinkle  in  his  eyes  ;  "and  not  fo  keep  yon  longer  in  suspense, 
I  will  inform  you  that  Uuele  Angnst  lias  some  business  abroad, 
which,  as  ho  cannot  make  up  his  mind  to  the  voyage,  he  thinha 
I  can  attend  to,  nnd  1  e  lins  proposed  tlmt  I  tnke  yon  nlong  with 
me.  We  are  to  have  a  six  months'  trip,  combine  l>nsiness  with 
pleasure,  sii)d  get  all  tlie  enjoyment  we  can  ont  of  it." 

Gladys  gave  one  startled,  astonished  plnnco  at  he»*  lover's 
face  as  he  concluded,  and  then  her  face,  clouded  and  her  eyes 
dropped  I'eneath  his. 

"Did— papa,  pr'-pos*  that  to  yon?"  she  asked,  in  a  low  tcne,  a 
burning  Hush  suffusing  her  face. 

''Yea,  dear  He  said  YOU  l:ad  long  wanted  to  po  abroad,  nnd 
he  thought  tin's  would  b<-»  a  tine  opportunity  for  both  of  us. 
Doesn't  the  idea  please  you?" 

Geoffrey  1<new  well  enough  what  was  passing  in  her  mind, 
but,  lie  was  HO  jnliilant  :nnl  so  confident  of  the  issue  of  the  inter 
view  that  :>  spirit  of  mischief  possessed  him  to  tease  her  a  liltlo. 

''I  should  love  to  po  abroad  —  I  have  always  longed  to  po.  as 
papa  says,"  Gladys  answered,  gravely,  and  with  still  downcast 
eyes  ;  "but — I  do  not  think  I  can  go  without  papa  and 
mamma." 

"Why?"  returned  Geoffrey,  in  a  pretended  surprise.  "Uncle 
August  thought,  as  you  nnd  I  were  both  fresh  from  school,  we 
should  appreciate  and  enjoy  the  sight-seeing  much  better  to  go 
together." 

"It  would  be  lovely,  but — Geoff,  yon  know  I  cannot  go — so," 
she  persisted,  with  a  crimson  face,  and  a  suspicious  tremor  in 
Ler  voice. 

Be  gathered  her  close  in  his  arms,  and  laid  hir  head  against 
liis  b'-pnst. 

;  Darling,  forgive  mo  for  tensing  yon,"  lie  said.  "Of  course, 
you  cannot  go — 'so';  but,  Gladvs,  will  yon  go  witji  me  as  my 
wife  ?" 

He  could  feel  the  quid?  bounding  of  her  heart  at  this  unex 
pected  proposition,  and  he  knew  well  enough  that  she  would 
raise  no  moiv  objections  to  the  trip  j?broi»d. 

He  then  repented  the  conversation  that  had  passed  between 
her  father  and  himself  that  morning,  telli.ig  hf  r  how  surprised 
he  ha<!  been  at  the  plan.  f  nd  how.  at  first,  he  had  hardly  feH  it 
richt  to  ndo^t  it,  considering  his  rather  doubtful  position  in 
life  Still,  he  had  reasoned,  if  he  could  save  Mr.  Huntress 
from  a  dreaded  journey  in  the  dead  of  winter,  and  if  his  services 
we»-e  to  be  worth  the  generous  sum  he  had  named  as  Irs  salarv, 
he  might  feel  justified  in  waving  his  own  scruples  and  in  ac 
cepting  the  prent  happiness  offered  him.  thonsrh  he  never  would 
have  dreamed  of  proposing  such  a  measure  himself. 

"Mv  Gladys,"  V<  --nid.  in  conclusion,  "it  is  verv  sudden,  and 
there  is  ordv  a  •  'o  time,  before  I  must  go.  Will  yon  come 
•with  me,  or  rmist  I  yo  by  myself?" 


A   WEDDISG  IN  PROSPECT.  217 

Thr-re  was  a  minute  of  silence,  then  Gladvs  raised  her  head, 
and  laid  her  lips  softly  against  her  lover's  chrek. 

"Under  such  circumstances,  von  may  lie -very  snre  that.  I  shall 
not  lot  you  go  alone,"  she  murmured,  with  a  happy  little 
hutch. 

His  arms  closed  more  fondly  about  her.  He  bent  and  kissed 
her  lips,  his  f;iee  radinnt  with  joy. 

'•Oli!  my  darling,  wlio  would  have  believed  eight  or  nine 
years  ago  that  such  happiness  could  fall  to  the  lot  of  the  poor 
boy  wliom  yon  rescued  from  a  mob  in  the  fctieet,"  he  said,  in  a 
tremulous  tone. 

They  discussed  their  anticipated  trip  fully  an:1  freely  after 
this,  laid  out  their  route,  and  formed  main  u  pleasunt  plan  for 
the  coming  years. 

The  whole  family  held  a  council  that  evening,  and  it  was 
decided  that  preparation*  for  the  wedding  should  be  entered 
tipon  immediately,  and  that  the  marriage  should  occur  just  pre- 
TIOUS  to  the  sailing  of  the  steamer  ou  which  the  young  couple 
would  embark  for  Europe. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Huntress  found  it  somewhat  trying  to  contem 
plate  the  loneliness  which  they  knew  would  follow  the  de 
parture,  of  their  children,  but  they  believed  that  the  arrange 
ment  would  be  for  their  interest  and  happiness,  and  they  would 
not  mar  their  joy  by  giving  expression  to  any  feeling  of  sorrow 
or  regret. 

Geoffrey  at  once  entered  upon  his  duties,  and  with  an  enthus 
iasm  and  ener<ry  that  promised  well  for  the  future;  while.  Mrs. 
Huntress  and  Gladys  busied  themselves  about,  the  interesting 
mysteries  of  a  wedding  trousseau  and  preparations  for  the  prrand 
reception,  that  was  to  follow  the  marriage  ceremony  in  Plym 
outh  Church  somewhere  about  tha  last  of  December  or  the  first 
of  January. 


While  all  these  events  were  transpiring  in  Brooklyn,  Everet 
Manlesou  was  living  in  a  state  of  depression  and  unrest  in  his 
beautiful  home  near  Richmond. 

After  his  trip  to  thnt  mining  district  in  New  Mexico,  where 
l)e  had  visited  the  grave  nnd  former  home  of  Annie  Dale,  he 
returned  immediately  to  Vue  de  1'Enu,  where  he  remained, 
appearing  very  little  like  the  free  and  ea^y  student  who  had 
been  so  full  of  life  and  hope  at  the  conclusion  of  his  college 


Colonel  Maploson  nnd  his  wife  returned  from  Newport  about 
the  «a  mo  time,  and  both  wondered  what  could  have  occurred  to 
change  their  POM  thus  in  so  short  a  time. 

Mrs.  Maoleson  attributed  it  to  his  hopeless  nftnrhment  to 
the  beautiful  girl  whom  she  had  seen  at  Yn'e.  nnd  for  whom 
Everet  had  confessed  his  love;  bat  she  could  not  get  one  word 


218  A   WEDDING  IN  PEOSPECT.' 

from  him  on  the  subject,  although  she  had  tried  to  gain  his 
confidence  upon  several  occasions. 

"Father,1'  said  the  voung  man,  coming  into  the  library  one 
morning,  after  the  household  had  settled  into  its  usual  routine, 
"while  von  were  away  I  visited  the  Hermitage,  and  made  a 
singular  discovery  there." 

"All!  I  imagined  everything  of  a  singular  character  had 
disappeared  from  that  place  when  Robert  Dale  departed  this 
life.  "What  was  the  nature  of  your  discovery,  pray?"  Colonel 
Mapleson  remarked,  looking  up  from  the  newspaper  that  he  was 
reading,  and  removing  his  spectacles. 

Everet  described  his  visit  to  the  place,  told  of  his  energetic 
blow  upon  the  desk  and  its  results,  and  then  produced  the  pack 
age  of  certificates  and  the  picture  which  he  had  found,  to  prove 
his  statements. 

"Well,  this  is  a  singular  discovery,  I  confess,"  paid  his  father, 
when  he  had  finished.  "Let  me  have  a  look  at  that  picture." 

He  held  out  his  hand,  and  upon  receiving  it  he  turned  to 
the  light  to  examine  it. 

"Yes,  this  must  be  a  likeness  of  Mrs.  Dale;  it  resembles  her 
Striking! v,  although  she  was  greatly  changed,  and  this  must 
have  been  taken  many  years  previous  to  my  acquaintance  with 
her." 

"Then  you  knew  her?"  said  his  son. 

"Oh,  yes;  I've  eaten  many  a  fine  cookie  baked  by  her  hands 
during  my  boyhood,"  replied  Colonel  Mapleson,  musingly. 
"Poor  Robert  Dale!  so  he  treasured  his  love  for  her  as  long  as 
he  lived !" 

"And  he  has  left  all  his  money  to  her  daughter,"  said  Everet, 
touching  the  package  of  certificates  that  lay  on  the  table. 

"It  would  have  been  more  to  the  purpose  if  he  had  given  the 
famifv  some  of  it  while  they  were  suffering  the  stings  of  pov 
erty,"  Colonel  Mapleson  remarked,  jis  attention  still  riveted 
Upon  the  picture. 

"Did  you  know  the  daughter?"  Everet  inquired. 

"Yes;  I  had  some  acquaintance  with  her." 

"Were  they  so  very  poor?" 

"Well,  they  had  a  pretty  hard  time  of  it,  I  reckon,  for  a 
while;  bnt  I  did  not  realize  it  at  the  time,  for  I  was  very  young, 
only  visited  Uncle  Jabez  during  my  vacation;  you  know  he  ^ent 
nie  to  Baltimore  to  school.  Uncle  Jabez  gave  them  a  cottage 
rent,  free,  and  g?»ve  them  something  besides  to  help  eke  cut  a 
small  annuity  that  Mrs.  Dale  had,  and  that  was  all  they  had  to 
live  upon  until  they  opened  a  small  private  school.  After  I  came 
into  possession  of  the  estate  T  allowed  them  to  remain  in  the 
cottage,  the  same  as  before,  although  they  would  not  accept 
from  me  the  money  that  they  had  received  from  Uncle  Jabez; 
thev  were  very  proud. 

"Then  that  cottage  belongs  to  you?"  Everet  remarked. 


A  WEDDING  IN  PROSPECT.  219 

(Yes." 

'Has  it  ever  been  occupied  since  the  Dales  left  it?" 
'No." 

'To  whom  does  the  furniture  belong?" 

'How  do  you  know  that  it  is  furnished?"  Colonel  Mapleson 
asked,  turning  around  and  glancing  sharply  at  his  son. 

Everet  colored. 

"I  was  riding  by  there,  one  day,  and  felt  a  curiosity  to  look 
inside  the  house " 

"But  the  curtains  are  all  drawn,"  interrupted  his  father. 

"True;  but  I  managed  to  get  a  glimpse  for  all  that,  "the  young 
man  returned,  lightly,  although  he  did  not  care  to  tell  just  how 
he  had  learned  that  thehouse  was  furnished.  "By  the  way,"  he 
continued,  "there  is  some  strange  story  about  the  disappearance 
of  Mrs.  Dale's  daughter,  isn't  there?" 

"Yes,  I  believe  so  ;  she  went  away  somewhere  to  get  a  place 
as  governess,  and,  as  she  never  came  back,  people  imagined  there 
was  some  mystery  about  it." 

"What  is  your  theory  regarding  it?"  Everet  asked. 

"My  theory?  I  don't  know  as  I  have  any  ;  I  was  away  travel 
ing  at  the  time.  She  may  have  gone  as  governess  into  some 
family,  who  afterward  went  abroad,  taking  her  with  them  ;  or, 
what  is  more  likeJy,  she  in  ay  have  married  and  removed  to  some 
distant  portion  of  the  country." 

"One  would  suppose  that  she  would  have  wished  to  dispose  of 
the  furniture  in  her  home  before  going  away  permanently," 
Everet  observed. 

"Oh,  the  furniture  belongs  with  the  cottage— didn't  I  tell 
you?"  replied  his  father. 

"No,  you  didn't,"  said  Everet,  dryly,  and  thinking  old  Jazeb 
Mapleaon  must  have  been  pretty  lavish  with  his  money  to  have 
furnished  the  cottage  in  such  a  luxurious  style  for  his  poor  rela 
tives.  "At  all  events,"  he  continued,  "it  is  strange  that  ske  did 
not  communicate  her  plans,  whatever  they  were,  to  some  one 
whom  she  had  known,  isn't  it?" 

"Well,  perhaps;  but  it  seems  to  me  that  you  are  strangely  in 
terested  in  the  fate  of  this  girl,  Ev,"  and  his  father  turned 
about  again  and  looked  him  squarely  in  the  face,  as  he  said 
this. 

Again  the  young  man  colored. 

"I  don't  see  anything  very  remarkable  about  it,  when  I  have 
just  discovered  a  fortune  for  her,"  he  replied,  after  a  moment 
of  hesitation. 

"Well,  no;  there  is  something  in  that  argument,  surely,"  re 
turned  his  father,  in  a  tone  of  conviction.  "How  much  does.it 
amount  to?"  and  Colonel  Mapleson  took  up  the  certificates  and 
began  to  examine  them. 


220         KOSJCRT  VALE'S  WILL  BEOUQUT  TO  LIGHT. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 
ROBERT  DALE'S  WILL  BROUGHT  TO  LIGHT. 

He  looked  each  paper  cai'afnllj  throngh,  writing  down  tha 
amounts  represented,  ami  finally  adding  them  to  liud  the  sum. 

"Well,  it  makes  quit0)  a  handsome  little  fortune,  when  we 
take  into  consideration  the  fact  th;it  it  has  been  accumulating  all 
theso  years,"  he  said,  as  he  pushed  toward  his  son  the  paper 
upon  which  he  had  been  figuring.  "And  yet,"  lie  added,  "I 
know  that  this  cannot  represent  one-half  of  Robert  Dale's  for 
tune.  What  can  have  become  of  the  rest?'* 

'•He  may  have  given  it  away  during  his  life,"  Everet  sug 
gested. 

"Possibh  :  and  yet  I  do  not  believe  it,"  said  Colonel  Mr  pie- 
son,  thoughtfully.  "He  \vas  a  strange  character,  .is  the  hiding 
of  these  documents  proves,  and  I  am  convinced  there  are  ruoro 
concealed  somewhere  else." 

"I  do  not  see  what  the  man  cnnld  have  been  thinking  of,  if  he 
\vas  in  his  right  mind,  to  hide  his  property  in  such  a  way,  with 
out  leaving  some  clew  to  it!  How  could  he  expect  his  heir 
would  ever  be  benefited  by  his  money,  when  what  represented 
it  was  concealed  in  that  secret  compartment?"  said  Everet,  im 
patiently. 

"That  is  a  question,  and  the  aofc  was  only  one  of  the  many 
queer  tilings  that  made  the  man  what  he  was,"  replied  hi3  fa 
ther. 

"What  will  you  do  with  these  papers?"  the  young  man  in 
quired. 

"1  do  not  know  what  to  do  with  them,"  returned  the  colonel, 
a  perplexed  frown  on  his  brow. 

"Who  would  inherit  the  property  in  case  the  direct  legatee 
cannot  be  found?" 

"I  suppose  I  am  the  nearest  of  kin,"  said  Colonel  Maploson. 
"It  was  so  decided  when  thu  question  as  to  who  should  inherit 
the  Hermitage  and  laud  belonging  to  him,  came  up  after  his 
cleat  li." 

"Then  all  this  money  will  be  yours  also,  if  neither  Annie  Dale 
nor  any  of  her  heirs  can  be  found?"  said  Everet,  with  suppressed 
eagerness.' 

"I  suppose  it  will;  but " 

"But  what?" 

"I  do  not  want  it,  Everet;  I  have  enough  without  it.  I  would 
much  prefer  that  the  rightful  heir  should  have  it." 

"I  suppose  jou  will  advertise  for  Annie  Dale,  or  for  her  near 
est  of  kin?''  Everet  said,  bonding  a  keeu  look  upon  his  father. 


ROBERT  DALE'S  WILL  BROUGHT  TO  LIGHT.         221 

"I  don't  know.  I  shall  have  to  think  the  matter  over  first — 
perhaps  consult  my  lawyer  about  it,"  Colonel  Mapleson  replied, 
meditatively. 

He  fell  into  deep  thought,  and  neither  spoke  for  several  min 
utes. 

At  length  the  colonel  glanced  np  at  the  clock. 

"Well,"  lie  retuurked,  with  a  sigh,  "I  have  business  to  attend 
to,  and  I  must  be  off." 

He  arose,  gathered  up  the  papers,  carefully  wrapping  them  all 
together,  then,  locking  them  iuto  a  drawer  of  Ins  desk,  he 
abruptly  left  the  room. 

Everet  sat  there  for  more  than  an  hour  afterward,  his  head 
bowed  upon  his  hand,  thinking  deeply,  his  brow  contracted,  his 
whole  face  we<tri.>g  a  perplexed  and  troubled  look. 

At  length,  lie,  too,  left  tlie  house,  ordered  his  horse,  uud  rode 
away  in  tiie  direction  of  the  old  mill. 

Reaching  the  Dale  cottage,  which  was  evidently  his  destina 
tion,  he  dismounted,  fastened  liis  horse,  and  then  bent  his  steps 
around  to  the  back  door,  intending  to  force  an  nitrance,  as  be 
fore;  and  yet,  if  any  one  had  asked  the  question,  he  could  not 
have  told  why  he  had  come  there  again. 

But,  as  he  was  passing  the  window  of  the  little  bedroom,  he 
was  sure  that  he  saw  one  of  the  curtains  move. 

"Aha!"  he  said  to  himself;  "either  a  mouse  or  some  human 
being  was  the  cause  of  that.  1  do  not  believe  there  is  anything 
inside  that  empty  house  to  attract  a  hungry  mouse,  so  1  will  be 
cautious  in  my  movements,  and  maybe  I  shall  make  a  discov 
ery  of  some  kind." 

He  slipped  off  his  low  shoes,  stepped  noiselessly  upon  the 
Veraiid.i,  keeping  out  of  the  range  of  the  window  so  as  not  to 
cast  a  shallow  within  the  room,  and  crept  clo.se  up  to  the  low 
sill. 

The  curtain  had  been  thrust  aside  a  trifle,  so  that  he  could 
easily  see  the  interior  of  the  room,  and  he  beheld  that  which 
riveted  him,  spell-bound,  to  the  spot,  and  drove  every  drop  of 
blood  to  his  heart. 

He  saw  his  father  sitting  close  beside  the  window,  so  close, 
that  his  lightest  movement  caused  one  of  his  arras  to  hit  the 
curtain. 

On  the  floor,  before  him,  there  stood  an  open  trunk,  of  medium 
size,  which,  apparent.lv,  !iad  been  pulled  from  beneath  the  bed, 
and  from  which  Colonel  Mapleson  had  taken  it  portfolio,  while 
he  wan  ohsorbed  in  looking  over  a  package  of  letters  which  it 
contained. 

He  was  very  pale,  and  his  son  could  perceive  traces  of  deep 
emotion  on  his  face,  which  seemed  to  have  grown  strangely  old. 
during  the  last  two  hours. 

The  young  man  drew  hack,  after  that  one  look,  the  color  all 
«jont.  from  his  own  face,  and  his  lips  strangely  compressed. 


222         ROBERT  DALPTS  WILL  BROUGHT  TO  LIGHT. 

Without  making  tho  slightest  noise,  he  stole  from  the  veranda 
picked  up  his  shoes,  and  hurried  from  the  place. 

Outside  the  gate,  he  paused  long  enough  to  replace  his  shoes 
on  his  feet,  when  he  again  mounted  his  horse,  and  rode  quietly 
away. 

Half  an  hour  later  Colonel  Mapleson  emerged  from  the  front 
door  of  the  cottage,  and,  after  looking  cautiously  around,  as  if 
he  was  afraid  of  being  observed,  he  passed  quickly  down  tha 
steps,  out  of  the  gate,  carefully  closing  it  after  him,  and  then 
strode  rapidly  toward  a  thick  growth  of  trees  and  bushes,  behind 
"which  he  had  fastened  his  horse. 

Springing  into  his  saddle,  he  spoke  sharply  to  the  animal,  and 
rode  away  at  a  brisk  trot  in  the  opposite  direction  from  that 
•which  Everet  had  taken  a  little  while  before. 

Bnt  at  the  end  of  a  mile  or  so,  he  turned  abruptly  into  an 
other  cart  path,  and,  after  nearly  an  hour's  ride,  came  in  sight 
of  the  Hermitage. 

Dismounting,  he  led  his  horse  behind  the  house  into  the  di 
lapidated  ptable,  where  he  would  be  sheltered  and  concealed 
from  sight,  if  any  one  chanced  to  pass  that  way,  and  then  he 
made  his  own  way  inside  the  Hermitage. 

It  was  evident,  from  all  his  movements,  that  he  had  come 
there  with  some  settled  purpose,  for  he  drew  a  hammer  and 
chisel  from  one  of  his  pockets,  and  then  commenced  a  system 
atic  examination  of  the  room  that  had  been  Robert  Dale's 
sanctum. 

Bnt  it  proved  to  be  a  rather  discouraging  undertaking,  for 
there  was  very  little  about  the  room  to  suggest  a  place  of  con 
cealment  for  anything  of  a  valuable  character. 

There  was  so  little  wood-work  about  the  house  that  there  was 
not  much  chance  for  secret  panels  or  closets.  The  doors  were 
of  oak — solid  oak,  for  he  tested  them  thoroughly  with  his  ham 
mer.  The  book-cases  offered  not  the  slightest  evidence  of  any 
hiding-place;  the  desk  he  examined  several  times,  finding  the 
compartment  of  which  Everet  had  told  him,  but  no  other,  al 
though  he  critically  examined  every  portion  of  it. 

The  floor  was  of  brick,  paved  in  herring-bone  patterns,  bnt 
there  was  no  indication  that  a  single  brick  had  ever  been  removed 
for  any  purpose  whatever,  although  he  inspected  the  whole  sur 
face  with  the  utmost  care.  At  last,  wearied  out  with  his  fruitless 
efforts,  he  sat  down  in  the  chair  before  the  desk,  to  rest  and  to 
think. 

"I  am  confident,"  he  muttered,  "that  the  man  must  have 
made  a  will,  and  that  there  are  other  papers  existing,  represent 
ing  a  large  amount  of  property.  I  believe  he  cunningly  con 
cealed  them  during  his  lifetime,  thinking  that,  when  he  came  to 
die  he  would  have  warning  enough  to  enable  him  to  confide  his 
Becret  to  some  trustworthy  person." 

He  looked  up  at  the  ceiling;  he  closely  scrn tin i:;pd  tho  window 


ROBERT  DAL fTJi  WILL  BROUGHT  TO  LIGHT.         223 

casings   and    tlie   fire  place.      Bnt   there   wasn't   a   crack  nor  a 
crevice  that  promised  »  revelation  of  any  kind. 

Suddenly  au  idea  struck  him,  aud  he  hastily  arose  from  his 
chair. 

It  «  as  a  stout  office  chair,  cushioned  with  leather  th»t  \vaa 
nailed  to  the  frame.  He  turned  it  bottom  side  np.  Nothing 
but  solid  wood  met  his  gaze. 

He  set  it  upright  atrain  and  passed  his  hand  over  the  cushion. 
It  was  springiest*  and  to  all  appearance  had  never  been  dis 
turbed  since  it  was  first  nailed  to  the  chair. 

After  thinking  a  moment,  Colonel  Mapleson  took  his  jack- 
knife  from  his  pocket  and  deliberately  cut  the  cover  entirely  off. 

Only  a  scant  layer  of  curled  hair  lay  beneath,  closely  matted 
and  tilled  with  dust.  H^  removed  this,  and  instantly  an  ex 
clamation  of  satisfaction  escaped  him,  for  there,  in  the  bottom 
of  the  chair,  he  had  discovered  a  square  lid,  so  cunningly  and 
smoothly  fitted  in  its  place  that  no  one  would  ever  have  sus 
pected  it  was  there. 

A  tiny  leather  strap  indicated  how  it  was  to  be  lifted  from  its 
place.  He  eagerly  removed  it,  and,  underneath,  discovered  a 
small  japanned  trunk  about  twelve  inches  .square. 

It  was  the  work  of  but  a  moment  to  take  it  from  its  cunning 
place  of  concealment,  where  it  had  lain  undisturbed  for  so  many 
years,  and  set  it  upon  the  desk  before  him. 

Then  he  sat  down  again,  and  gravely  looked  at  it,  while  he 
actually  trembled  with  excitement,  and  drops  of  perspiration, 
stood  all  over  his  face. 

It  was  strange  that  the  unearthing  of  another  man's  secrets 
should  affect  bin;  thus,  and  it  almost  seemed  ns  if  be  shrank 
•with  a  sort  of  supen-titious  terror  from  examining  the  contents 
of  that  inoffensive-looking  trunk. 

At  length  he  raised  the  hasp,  and  threw  back  the  lid.  The 
first  tiling  that  met  his  eye  was  a  document  lal>eled,  "  Will  of 
Robert  Dale,"  with  the  date,  showing  that  it  had  been  made  only 
a  few  years  previous  to  the  man's  death. 

With  a  slight  shiver  of  repugnance,  Colonel  Mapleson  laid  it 
unopened  on  the  desk. 

Underneath  he  found  several  bank-books  and  certificates,  all 
in  Robert  Dale's  name.  Then,  to  his  astonishment,  he  found  a 
lady's  kid  glove  that  once  had  been  white;  a  handkerchief,  h'na 
and  sheer,  edged  with  soft  lace,  and  marked  with  the  initials, 
"N.  D. ,"  worked  in  with  hair.  A  little  package,  containing  a 
few  faded  flowers,  lay  at  the  bottom  of  the  trunk,  and  the  secret 
of  Robert  Dale's  hermit  life,  and  of  the  disposal  of  bis  property, 
was  a  secret  no  longer. 

An  examination  of  the  bank-books  and  certificates  revealsd 
the  fact  that  many  thousands  of  dollars  would  fall  to  Robert 
Dale's  heir  or  heirs,  whoever  they  might  be,  and  that  point 
doubtless  the  will  would  settle. 


224         ROBERT  DALE'S  WILL  BROUGHT  TO  LIGHT. 

Colonel  Mapleson  iv  placed  the  contents  of  the  trunk  just  nci  he 
had  found  them,  until  he  came  to  the  will,  whicli  lie  hold  irres 
olutely  in  his  hands  for  a  long  time,  and  apparently  absorbed  in 
thought. 

"Somebody  has  to  know  first  or  last,*'  he  at  length  muttered, 
with  a  long-drawn  sigh,  but  lie  shivered  with  a  sort  of  nervous 
dread  as  he  unfolded  the  document,  whicli  was  not  sealed, 
and  began  to  rea;l  it. 

It  was  verr  brief  and  comprehensive,  bequeathing  all  that  the 
testator  possessed,  unreservedly,  to  "Annie  Dale  and  her  heirs 
forever,"  and  naming  us  lii.s  executor  a  certain  man  residing  iu 
Richmond — Richard  Douglas,  to  whom  alone  had  been  con 
fided  the  secret  of  the  concealment  of  the  will  and  other  papers. 
"Ah!"'  said  Colonel  Miipleson,  "this  accounts  for  their  never 
having  been  discovered  before.  Richard  Douglas  was  very  ill 
at  the  time  of  Robert  Dale's  death,  and  was  himself  buried  only 
a  week  later." 

There  was  a  codicil  to  the  will,  mentioning  some  later  depo*its 
which  had  been  made  in  the  name  of  Annie  Dale,  "certificates 
of  which  would  be  found  beneath  a  movable  panel  in  one  end  of 
the  writer's  desk,  there  being  no  room  for  them  iu  the  trunk 
with  the  others.'1 

Colonel  Mapleson  looked  greatly  disturbed  when  he  finished 
reading  the  document. 

^  "It  would  have  been  better  for  me  had  a  mountain  fallen 
upon  me,  than  the  duty  whicli  this  discovery  imposes."  he 
groaned,  as  he  laid  it  back  in  its  place  and  closed  the  trunk. 
"I  must  either  do  it,  or  commit  a  crime  by  withholding  a  for 
tune  from  the  lawful  heir." 

He  fell  into  a  pr-.. found  reverie,  which  lasted  until  the  sun 
went  down  and  the  light  began  to  grow  dim  and  the  air  chil) 
within  that  lonely  dwelling.  - 

An  impatient  and  prolonged  whinnv  from  his  horse  at  length 
aroused  him  from  his  painful  musings,  when  he  arose,  and, 
taking  the  trunk  with  him,  he  left  the  house,  brought  forth  his 
horse  from  his  long  fast,  and  started  on  his  homeward  way. 

It  was  quite  dark  when  he  reached  Vue  de  1'Eau,  and,  by 
exercising  a  little  caution,  he  managed  to  effect  an  entrance  to 
his  library  unobserved,  where  he  immediately  concealed  the 
trophy  which  he  had  that  day  discovered. 


While  Colonel  Mapleson  had  been  engaged  with  his  laborious 
search  at  the  Hermitage,  his  son  was  earnestly  pursuing  investi 
gations  elsewhere. 

Aft?r  stealing  noiselessly  away  from  the  cottage,  where  he 
hail  discovered  his  father  within  it  looking  over  that  trunk,  he 
only  proceeded  as  far  as  the  old  mill,  where  heagain  dismounted, 
and  leading  his  horse  beneath  a  shed  that  was  attached  to  it,  and 


ROBERT  DALE'S  WILL  BROUGHT  TO  LIGHT.        226 

which  was  so  thickly  overgrown  witli  vines  that  it  made  a  very 
secure  hiding-place,  he  fastened  him  to  a  pout,  after  which  he 
dimmed  the  stairs  to  the  main  |>orii«n  of  t lie  crnzy  structure, 
and  remained  there,  watching  until  lie  saw  Colonel  Maplesou 
leave  the  cottage,  and  when  he  was  well  out  of  sight  lie  stole 
back  to  the  mysterious  little  house,  r  :sol\ed  not  to  leave  it  again 
until  he,  too,  had  Keen  the  contents  of  that  hitherto  unsuspected 
trunk,  and  learned  the  secn-t  of  its  being  there. 

He  effected  an  entrance  the  same  way  that  he  had  done  before 
— by  shaking  loose  tne  bolt  on  the  kitchen  door — made  his  war 
to  the  bedroom,  lifted  the  valance  of  the  couch  and  looked 
eagerly  beneath  it. 

Tiie  truuk  was  there. 

It  was  the  work  of  but  a  moment  to  pull  it  forth  from  its  hiding- 
place,  but  it  was  not  so  easy  to  open  it. 

He  pried  patiently  at  the  lock  for  a  h>ng  time  before  be  suc 
ceeded  in  forcing  it ;  but  it.  gave  way  at  last,  and.  with  a  thrill 
of  expectation,  mingled  with  something  of  awe  and  dread,  he 
laid  back  the  lid  to  examine  the  contents. 

It.  was  packed  full  of  clothing. 

Thers  were  dainty  dresses  of  different  materials — silk,  and 
\vnol.  and  muslin.  There  wer<*  mantels  and  jackets,  with  under 
clothing,  finely  embroidered  >md  tiimmed  with  lace,  besides 
many  other  accessories  of  a  refined  lady's  toilet.  There  were 
] -rettv  boxes  filled  with  laces,  ribbons,  handkerchiefs,  and 
ploves.  Tlisire  was  n  small  jewel  casket,  in  which  there  were  a 
few  but  expensive  articles  of  jewelrv--  a  wntch  case,  containing 
a  small  enameled  and  jeweled  watch  and  chain,  and  many  other 
articles  in  that  closely-packed  trunk. 

Hut  Evereb  cnr^d  tor  none  of  these  tilings;  he  wa«  bunting 
for.  and  at  last  he  found,  that,  portfolio  over  which  his  father 
lind  been  so  much  absorbed,  and  IIP  seized  it  with  an  air  of  tri 
umph,  for  he  believed  it  mu*t  contain  th«»  solution  of  the  secret 
which  of  late  bad  caused  him  many  sleepless  nights  and  anxious 
days. 


226  TWO  LETTERS. 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

TWO    LETTERS. 

The  portfolio  was  not  locked,  and  within  it  Everet  discovered 
numerous  letters,  nil  of  which  were  addressed  to  "Miss  Annie 
Dale."  Most  of  them  were  in  ladies'  handwriting,  and  a  planoe 
sufficed  to  show  that  they  were  from  schoolmates  and  girlish 
friends. 

There  were  also  several  essays,  which  had  evidently  been  writ 
ten  bv  Annie  herself,  when  she  was  at  school,  and  these  were 
carefully  tied  together  with  a  narrow  and  faded  bine  ribbon.  A 
package  of  little  billets  contained  locks  of  hair  of  various  colors 
and  shades,  fancifully  braided  and  glued  to  the  paper,  each  with 
the  name  of  the  donor  written  underneath,  liiere  were  a  few 
drawings,  very  neatly  done,  some  of  landscapes,  others  of 
flowers,  ferns,  and  grasses,  and  one  that  brought  a  startled  cry 
from  Everet  Mapleson's  lips,  for  it  was  a  faithful  representation 
of  that  very  house  in  the  mining  village  of  New  Mexico,  that  he 
had  visited  only  a  few  weeks  since.  The  same  hand  had  done 
this  that  had  drawn  the  others,  there  could  be  no  doubt,  even 
if  the  initials  "A.  D."  at  the  bottom  had  not  testified  to  the 
fact. 

"  'A.  D.,'  "  murmured  the  young  man.  "The  puzzle  is  slowly 
unweaving  itself.  This  trunk  must  have  been  brought  here 
after  she  died  ;  but  by  whom?" 

His  face  was  very  grave  and  troubled,  for  disagreeable 
thoughts  and  suspicions  came  crowding  thick  and  fast  upon 
him. 

He  put  the  drawings  carefully  back  into  the  pocket  from 
•which  ho  had  taken  them,  and  then  continued  his  examination 
of  the  portfolio.  But  he  found  nothing  in  the  other  pockets, 
save  a  goodly  supply  of  stationery,  and  ha  finally  came  to  the 
conclusion  that  if  there  had  been  any  papers  of  importance  in 
the  receptacle  they  had  probably  been  removed  by  his  father 
that  very  day. 

He  began  listlessly  turning  over  the  blotting  leaves  that  were 
attached  to  the  middle  of  the  portfolio  ;  there  was  now  and 
then  a  half  sheet  of  paper  between  them,  but  nothing  else,  until 
he  came  to  the  last  two,  when  a  scrap  of  paper  with  some  writ 
ing  upon  it  in  a  bold,  masculine  hand,  fell  fluttering  to  the 
floor. 

Everet  stooped  and  picked  it  up  to  return  it  to  its  place,  but 
the  instant  the  writing  met  his  eye,  the  hot  blood  mounted  to 
his  brow,  and  he  exclaimed,  in  a  startled  tone  : 

"At  last  I  have  found  it!" 


TWO  LETTERS.  227 

It  was  the*  other  half  of  that  letter,  which  had  been  torn  in 
two,  and  which  lie  had  found  caught  in  the  writing-desk  during 
his  previous  visit  to  the  cottage.  And  this  is  how  it  appeared  : 

"SANTA  FE,  June  10,  18 — . 
NIE: 

It  is  with  deep  pain  and 

just  learned  of  the  death  of 

se  I  know  that  this  leaves 

annuity  which  was  hers 

se  and  your  future  is 

tie  friend  !    I  can  say 

n  how  vain  and 

me;  but,  believe  me,  my 

you,  and  were  it  pos- 

and  strive  to  cheer 

I  am  now  going  to  ask  a 

6  been  friends  during  all  our 

not  refuse  me. 

the  cottage.     Let  it  be  still 

as  it  has  been  in  the 

any  restrictions . 

alone,  for  it  would 

secnre  some  com- 

n  yourself  who  will    . 

.    Do  not  mind  the 

that  we  are  relatives 

in  this  extremity 

ck  sufficient  for 

when  I  return 

ent  arrangement 

I  shall  be  very 

you. 

our  friend, 

" WILLIAM  MAPLESON." 

Everet  merely  glanced  at  this,  then  taking  his  wallet  from 
one  of  his  pockets,  he  drew  from  it  a  folded  paper. 

It  was  the  other  half  of  the  torn  letter. 

He  laid  the  two  portions  together;  the  nigged  edges  fitted  ex 
actly,  the  writing  was  identical,  and  the  epistle  was  complete, 
and  read  thus: 

"SANTA  FB.  June  10,  18—. 
"My  DBAB  ANNIE: 

"It  is  with  deep  pain  and 

regret  that  I  have  just  learned  of  the  death  of 
your  mother.  Of  course  I  know  that  this  leaves 
you  alone,  and  that  the  annuity  which  was  here 
for  life  only  must  now  cease,  and  your  future  is 
unprovided  for.  My  poor  little  friend,  I  can  say 
nothing  to  comfort  you,  for  I  know  how  vain  and 
cold  words  are  at  such  a  time;  but,  believe  me,  my 


TWO  LETTERS. 

heart  is  with  you.  I  sorrow  with  yon,  and  were  it  pos 
sible  I  would  come  to  yon  and  strive  to  cheer 
yon  iu  this  sad  hour.  .but  I  am  now  going  to  ask  a 
favor  of  you,  Annie— we  have  been  friends  during  all  imr 
life,  and  surely  you  will  not  refuse  me. 

"I  want  yoo  to  remain  in  the  cottage.  Let  it  be  still 
your  home  for  the  future  us  it  has  been  in  the 
past — It  is  yours  without  any  restrictions. 

"You  must  not,  however,  stay  there  alone,  for  it  would 
not  be  safe,  and  I  want  you  to  secure  some  com 
panion  -  some  one  older  than  yourself,  who  will 
be  a  sort  of  protector  to  you.  Do  not  mind  the 
expense,  Annie,  for  you  know  that  we  are  relatives. 
1  have  a  right  to  care  for  you  in  this  extremity. 

"Inclosed  you  will  find  check  sufficient  for 
your  present  necessities,  and  when  I  return 
I  will  make  some  permanent  arrangement 
for  you.  Write  me  at  once,  for  I  shall  be  very 
anxious  until  I  hear  from  you. 

"Ever  your  friend, 

"  WILLIAM  MAPLESON." 


"I  thought  the  writing  was  familiar  to  me.  I  suspected  my 
father  wrote  it  from  the  first,  and  yet  his  hand  has  changed  very 
iniiv-li  since  this  was  written.  But  surely  there  is  nothing  in  this 
merely  friendly  epistle  to  warrant  swell  dreadful  suspicions  as 
liave  nearly  driven  me  wild  during  these  last  few  weeks.  I  have 
believed  tlie  wry  worst — that  it  was  he  wno  enticed  her  away, 
and  then  betrayed  her  confidence.  I  know  that  he  was  in  New 
Mexico  at  that  time;  I  know  that  she  went  there  and  lived  with 
Borne  one  for  a  year;  and  then  that  ring  seemed  to  prove  every 
thing  to  me.  Still,  this  is  not  a  lover's  letter;  it  is  simply  a 
friendly  expression  of  sympathy  and  interest,  and  a  desire  to 
provide  for  a  relative  who  had  no  one  to  rely  upon.  Heavens! 
•will  this  mystery  never  lie  solved?"  he  concluded,  rising  and 
shutting  Hie  portfolio,  but  retaining  the  scrap  of  paper  he  had 
found. 

He  replaced  everything  in  the  trunk,  closed  it,  though  he 
could  not  lock  it  again,  then  pushed  it  back  under  the  bed;  after 
•which  lie  went  quickly  out  of  the  house,  feeling  depressed  anfl 
bitterly  disappointed  that  he  had  discovered  nothing  tangible, 
either  to  prove  or  dissipate  his  supicions. 

As  he  stepped  off  the  veranda,  something  white  fluttered  ill 
the  tall  grass  at  his  feet. 

It  was  another  letter. 

A  thrill  went  tingling  all  along  his  nerves,  as  lie  stooped  and 
picked  it  up. 

It  was  addressed  to  "Mi*s  Annie  Dale,  Richmond,  Va.,"  and 
bore  the  date  of  Ju'y  15tli,  of  the  same  year  as  the  other  one 
already  in  his  possession. 


TWO  LETTERS.  229 

It  was  also  in  the  flame  handwriting,  and  had  been  mailed  from 
Santa  Fe. 

'•This  is  one  of  the  things  that  he  came  hither  to  secure,  and 
jbe  must  have  dropped  it  as  he  passed  ont,"  Everet  mnnnmvd, 
as  lie  sat  down  upon  a  step,  drew  the  letter  from  iU  envelope, 
aud  began  to  read  it 

"My  DEAB  ANNIE,"  it  began,  like  the  other,  "your  reply  to  my  for- 
mer  letter  has  hurt  me  keenly.  I  cannot  bear  the  thought  of  yoni 
going  ont  into  the  world  alone  to  earn  your  own  living.  I  hoped  that 
you  would  be  content  to  remain  in  your  own  home,  and  let  me  pro 
vide  for  you  as  a  brother  would  do.  But  since  you  refuse— how  cold 
and  dignified  your  refusal  was,  too! — I  am  forced  to  break  all  barriers 
down  and  make  a  confession  that  for  years  I  had  yearned  to  make  and 
dare  not.  Annie,  you  must  not  become  a  governess;  I  should  be 
•wretched  to  think  of  yoii  in  such  a  situation.  If  you  will  not  let  nie 
take  care  of  you  there  at  home,  in  a  friendly  way,  you  must  come  to  me 
here;  for,  darling,  I  love  you  I  have  always  loved  you,  ever  since  we 
played  together,  as  childrec  by  the  brook  near  the  old  mill,  sailing 
our  tiny  ships  side  by  side,  ani  premised  each  other  that,  when  we 
were  older,  we  would  'be  married,  and  make  a  voyage  round  the  world 
together.'  Come  and  redeem  that  promise  to  me  now,  Annie,  darling. 
Do  not  hesitate  because  it  wi  1  involve  the  sacrifice  of  the  fortune  be 
queathed  to  me,  under  certaia  conditions,  for  I  cannot-  I  will  not — 
marry  my  Cousin  Estelle  while  I  love  another  as  I  love  you;  and  what 
is  all  the  wealth  of  the  world  compared  with  our  happiness?  I  am 
doing  finely  here  in  the  mines.  ia,a  few  years,  at  this  rate,  I  shall  be 
worth  even  more  than  I  shill  have  to  forfeit  by  this  step,  BO  I  will 
gladly  relinquish  every  dollaj  to  Estelle  for  you,  my  darling. 

"Annie,  I  believe  that  you  .ove  me — I  have  long  believed  it-  and  I 
have  yearned  to  make  this  confession,  and  to  hear  a  similar  one  from 

Jorr  lips,  for  a  long,  long  time.  Had  I  not  been  hampered  by  Uncl« 
abez's  will,  and  an  unworthy  vacillation  on  account  of  it,  I  should  have 
tolJ  you  this  that  last  delightful  summer  we  spent  together.  But  I 
have  passed  the  Rubicon  now,  so  do  not  ruin  all  my  hopes.  I  am 
iorry  that  I  cannot  come  to  yon,  my  own  love.  But  my  presence  is  ab 
solutely  necessary  here,  and  I  cannot  leave  for  such  a  long  trip;  but  if 
your  heart  responds  to  mine — if  you  will  come  to  me  and  give  your 
self  to  me,  I  will  meet  you  on  the  way,  at  Kansas  City,  and  from  there 
I  will  take  my  little  wife  to  her  own  home  among  the  mountains  of 
New  Mexico,  where  we  will  be  all  in  all  to  each  other.  You  will  not 
mind  the  isolation  for  a  little  while,  will  you,  love,  until  I  can  make 
my  fortune,  when  we  will  return  again  to  our  own  dear  sunny  South? 
Annie,  will  you  trust  me?  Will  you  come?  If  you  do  not,  I  believe 
my  life  will  be  ruined.  Do  not  think,  for  a  moment,  that  I  shall  ever 
regret  Jabez  Mapleson's  money.  I  shall  not  if  I  can  have  you.  Judge 
me  by  your  own  heart. 

"Inclosed  you  will  find  the  route  you  are  to  take,  carefully  mapped 
aut,  and  the  check  that  you  would  not  keep  before — my  proud  little 
woman!  I  feel  sure  that  you  can  come  with  perfect  safety  alone  as  far 
as  Kansas  City,  where  I  shall  be  surely  waiting  to  receive  you.  Send 
a  telegram  naming  the  day  and  the  hour  when  you  will  start. 

"One  thing  more,  love  -say  nothing  to  any  one  of  yonr  plans;  leave 


230  TWO  LETTERS. 

that  to  me,  to  explain  after  we  are  one.  Annie,  you  will  not  fail  me.  I 
could  not  bear  it  now,  for  I  have  set  all  my  hopes  upon  you,  I  shall 
not  rest  until  i  receive  your  telegram. 

"Ever  your  own,  WILL." 

Everet  Mapleson's  face  was  as  white  as  that  of  the  dead  as  he 
finished  reading  this  epistle. 

"It  is  all  true,  after  all,"  he  said,  with  blazing  eyes  and  through 
his  tightly  locked  teeth.  "It  was  he  who  enticed  her  away  in 
secret,  hiding  her  in  that  ont-of-the- way  place— literally  burying 
her  alive.  I  have  been  convinced  of  it  ever  since  I  found  that  ring 
with  those  initials — 'W.  M.  to  A.  D.' — engraved  within  it,  and 
yet  I  kept  hoping  it  could  riot  be  proved.  So  she  went  to  him 
— foolish  girl! — believing  that  he'd  marry  her  and  give  up  his 
money;  and  she  only  lived  one  short  year! 

"Now  Geoffrey  Huntress*  strange  resemblance  to  me  is  all  ac 
counted  for,"  he  went  on,  after  a  fit  of  musing;  "he  is  my  father's 
sou  and — my  half  broiher,  and  to  him  will  belong  all  Robert 
Dale's  '  fortune  if  he  should  ever  learn  the  secret  of  his  birth. 
Now  I  understand  why  he  was  given  into  Jack  and  Margaret 
Henly's  cnre.  It  would  have  been  very  awkward  for  the  heir 
of  half  Jabez  Mapleson's  fortune  if  that  New  Mexican  escapade 
Lad  leaked  out.  But  I  cannot  comprehend  how  the  boy  became 
an  imbecile — an  accident,  Mr.  Huntress  said — and  I  suppose 
those  people  got  tired  of  caring  for  him  and  cast  him  off.  No; 
that  can't  be,  either,  for  that  woman  seemed  terribly  upset  about 
it.  It's  all  a  wretched  puzzle,  anyhow. 

"Zounds!"  he  continued,  with  sudden  energy,  "the  governor 
is  a  wonderful  actor.  He  never  betrayed  himself  by  so  much  as 
the  quiver  of  an  eyelid,  this  morning,  when  we  talked  about  this 
girl's  disappearance.  I  wonder  what  he  will  do  about  that 
money?  Will  he  dare  keep  it?  or  will  he  try  to  find  the  boy  and 
make  it  over  to  him  in  some  roundabout  way?  No;  I  do  not  be 
lieve  he  will  ever  run  any  risk  of  having  that  New  Mexican  es 
capade  revealed.  He  couldn't  quite  stand  that,  and  my  hatightr 
mamma  would  never  forgive  him.  He  will  keep  the  money,  ami 
say  nothing.  Geoffrey  Huntress  will  never  get  his  fortune,  fop 
/  shall  keep  the  secret  that  I  have  this  day  discovered  closely 
locked  in  my  own  breast.  Neither  he  nor  ray  father  shall  ever 
learn  through  me  that  he  is  an  heir  of  the  houses  of  Dale  aud 
Maplsson. 

"He  loved  her,  though — I  am  sure  he  loved  her!"  he  resumed, 
his  eyes  falling  upon  that  still  open  letter.  "This  shows  it  in 
almost  every  line;  aud  his  face  to-day,  as  I  caught  a  glimpse  of 
it  through  the  window,  as  he  bent  over  that  trunk,  looked  as  if 
he  hud  just  buried  the  dearest  object  of  his  life.  It  must  have 
been  hard  to  look  at  all  her  pretty  fixings  and  remember  that  one 
short,  happy  year;  for  they  were  very  happy,  according  to  Bob 
Whittaker's  story.  That  is  the  reason  he  keeps  this  house,  aud 


"HE  IS  NOT  NAMH.LES&"  231 

all  in  it,  so  sacred.  Why  couldn't  lie  htive  married  her,  like  a 
man?  Money!  money!  1  believe  it  is  only  a  curse  to  half  the 
people  in  tlie  world." 

He  arose,  folded  the  letter,  and  put  it  in  his  pocket;  then 
going  to  thoold  mill,  he  unfabtened  his  horse,  mounted,  and  rode 
back  to  Vue  de  1'Eau,  looking  stern,  aud  grave,  aud  unhappy. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

''HE     IS     NOT     NAMELESS.' 

October  and  November  passed  without  any  event  of  special 
interest  occurring  in  connection  with  any  of  our  characters. 

In  Brooklyn,  in  the  home  of  August  Huntress,  these  were  very 
busy  days,  but  every  member  of  the  household  was  full  of  hope 
and  happiness. 

Gladys  and  Geoffrey  saw  but  comparatively  little  of  eacli  other, 
except  during  the  evening,  for  Geoffrey  went  early  to  the  office 
in  New  York  every  morning,  and  did  not  return  until  dinner 
time  at  nix;  but  both  were  looking  forward  to  the  thirtieth  of 
December,  the  date  set  for  their  uniou,  with  all  the  fond  antici 
pations  of  young  and  loving  hearts. 

Their  engagement  was  formally  announced  immediately  after 
it  was  decided  that  Geoffrey  was  to  go  abroad,  aud  cards  for  the 
wedding  were  issued  by  the  first  of  December. 

Congratulations  poured  in  upon  the  young  couple  from  all 
quarters,  and,  the  winter  being  an  exceptionally  gay  one,  invi 
tations  abroad  were  numerous  and  pressing,  their  friends  urging 
their  presence,  since  they  were  to  lose  their  society  entirely  dur 
ing  their  long  absence  in  Europe. 

Everet  Maploson,  while  reading  the  fashionable  items  in  a 
New  York  paper  one  morning,  came  across  the  announcement 
of  this  approaching  marriage. 

He  bounded  from  his  chair  with  a  muttered  imprecation. 

"So  soon!"  he  said,  with  a  frowning  i»row.  "They  are  in  a 
great  hurry,  it  seems  to  me;  but  perhaps  the  trip  abroad  explains 
it.  Let  me  see — they  are  to  be  married  on  the  thirtieth,"  he 
continued,  referring  to  the  paper  again,  "and  will  sail  the  next 
day  on  the  Scythia.  The  Scythia?  That  is  not  a  New  York 
steamer — that  sails  from  Boston;  so,  of  course,  they  will  have  to 
leave  New  York  immediately  after  their  marriage  to  be  in  season 
for  it." 

He  paced  up  and  down  the  room,  with  bent  head  and  «ullen, 
thoughtful  brow. 

All  at  once  he  gave  a  violent  start. 

"I  wonder,"  he  muttered,  stopping  short  in  bis  pacing;  "I 
wonder  if  it  would  be  possible  to  manage  it?" 

He   tossed   back   the  disheveled  hair  from  bis  forehead;  his 


232  "HE  IS  NOT  NAMELESS." 

eyes  blazed  with  some  sudden  purpose,  his  lips  were  Bet  in  a 
lii  in.  liviil  line. 

"/  sludl  tru  for  it,"  he  said,  in  a  low,  hoarse  whisper.  "I  have 
everv tiling  to  \vm  or  lose,  and  I  will  not  yield  without  a  desper- 
ate  struggle." 

Two  hours  later  his  portmanteau  was  packed,  and  he  was  tak 
ing  leave  of  his  father  and  mother. 

They  expressed  great  surprise  over  his  sudden  departure,  and 
protested  against  his  leaving  home  before  the  holidays,  since  they 
had  uiiidf  arrangements  for  u  gay  time  at  Christmas,  chiefly  oa 
bis  account. 

But  he  was  resolute,  and  would  not  be  turned  from  his  pur 
pose. 

'•There  is  to  be  a  great  wedding  in  New  York  on  the  thirtieth, 
for  which  1  am  booked,"  he  explained,  though  lie  did  not  say 
who  was  to  be  married;  "and  1  would  not  miss  it  for  anything.'* 

"Weil,  but  you  could  easily  reach  New  York  in  season  for  this 
wedding,  even  if  you  do  not  leave  until  alter  Christmas."  his 
mother  pleaded,  for  she  was  greatly  disturbed  to  have  him  leave 
Lome  at  this  time,  while  she  suspected,  from  his  gloomy  face, 
who  was  to  be  married,  and  felt  sure  he  was  only  heaping  up 
misery  for  himself  in  going  to  New  York. 

"Perhapn  I  will  come  back  just  for  your  grand  party  at 
Christmas,"  he  said,  to  appease  her  and  be  allowed  to  get  off 
without  further  objections;  "but  I  must  run  up  North  fora 
week  or  two,  anyhow." 

He  readied  the  city  on  the  morning  of  the  sixth,  and  proceed 
ed  directly  to  the  club,  of  which  he  was  a  member,  and  where 
be  KOOII  learned  all  that  was  going  on  among  the  bon  ton. 

During  the  following  day  lie  called  upon  Gladys'  friend,  Miss 
Ad  die  Loring,  from  whom  he  meant  to  get  all  the  particulars 
of  the  approaching  wedding. 

Miss  Loring  received  him  with  evident  pleasure. 

"Where  have  you  kept  yourself  nil  winter,  Mr.  Mnpleson?" 
ghe  questioned,  brightly,  as  she  cordially  grve  him  her  hand. 
"J  feared  you  had  deserted  us  altogether  since  leaving  college." 

"1  have  been  in  the  South  most  of  the  time,  but  something, 
more  powerful  than  home  influence,  constrained  me  to  come  to 
New  York  for  a  little  taste  of  society  and  city  life,"  Everet  re 
turned,  in  a  tone  and  with  a  look  that  made  the  young  lady's 
bright  eyes  droop  consciously. 

"Will  you  remain  until  the  end  of  the  season?" 

"That  depends,"  he  replied,  with  a  significant  smile,  which, 
made  her  hcsut  flutter  strangely. 

"New  York  is  very  gay  this  winter,  and  there  will  be  plenty 

to  entertain  you  for  as  long  as  you  choose  to  remain,"  Miss  Lor« 

ing  promised,  wi'.h  a  charming  smile.      "I  suppose,"  she  added, 

"you  have  heard  of  the  great  wedding   that  is  to  come  off  on 

'the  thirtieth?" 


••IIS  IS  NOT  NAMELESS."  233 

"The  great  wedding'  Whose?"  Everet  questioned,  feigning 
ignor.uu-e,  ulthungh  the  chief  object  of  his  call  was  lu  learn  all 
he  ciuild  about  it. 

"Why,  thut  of  your  classmate  and  double,  Mr.  Geoffrey  Hunt 
ress,  and  my  dear  friend,  Gladys.  I  am  astonished  that  you  have 
Dot  heard  of  it,"  said  MissAddie,  really  surprised  that  he  should 
not  iiave  received  cards  for  the  marriage. 

"All!  So  Huntress  is  going  to  marry  Miss  Gladys,  is  lie? 
Pray,  what  name  will  he  bestow  npon  the  lady?"  the  young  uinn 
asked,  with  a  curl  of  his  handsome  lips. 

"Why,  of  course,  there  will  be  no  change  of  name— Geoff  was 
legally  adopted  by  Mr.  Huntress,  so  that  makes  everything  all 
right,"  returned  Miss  Loru,g,  looking  a  trifle  displeased  at  the 
slur  that  had  been  cast  at  her  friend's  betrothed. 

"Then  the  groom-elect  has  never  been  able  to  discover  the 
secret  of  his  parentage?"  Everet  remarked,  inquiringly. 

"1  think   not." 

"Are  you  pleased  with  this  match,  Miss  Loving?" 

"Of  course  I  am — I  tbi;»k  Geoffrey  Huntress  is  a  magnificent 
man,"  she  affirmed,  emphatically.  "It  would,  doubtless,  be  a 
great  comfort  to  him  to  have  the  mystery  of  his  birth  solved  ; 
but  it  doesn't  matter,  really — they  love  each  other  devotedly, 
and  \\ill  make  a  splendid  couple." 

Evei-et  winced  under  these  last  words,  but  deemed  it  wiser 
to  keep  his  s'-eers  and  slurs  to  himself. 

"I  suppose  it — the  welding — will  be  a  very  grand  affair?"  be 
remarked. 

•'Very  ;  there  are  to  be  six  bridesmaids,  of  whom  I  am  to  be 
the  chief,"  responded  Miss  Addie,  with  animation.  "They  will 
be  married  in  Plymouth  Church." 

"In  church!*'  interposed  Everet,  with  an  eager  look.  "Will  it 
be  in  the  evening?" 

'•Yes,  in  the  early  evening — at  five  o'clock — and  they  will  re 
ceive  from  six  until  eight.  Mr.  Huntress  lias  spared  no  expense 
to  make  it  a  very  brilliant  affair.  But  I  am  surprised — I  sup 
posed,  having  been  a  classmate,  yon  would  have  received  cards 
for  the  wedding,  Mr.  Mapleson,"  Miss  Ijoring  concluded. 

"No,  I  have  not  been  honored.  Will  the  happy  couple  settle 
in  N-\v  York?  ' 

"R'-ally,  Mr.  Mapleson,  you  are  behind  the  times,"  laughed  his 
companion.  "No,  indeed,  they  sail  the  next  day,  at  twelve,  for 
Europe,  to  be  gone  for  six  months.  Will  not  that  he  delight 
ful?  If  the  con  rue  of  true  love  never  ran  smoothly  before,  it  has 
done  so  in  this  rase,  for  there  has  been  nothing  to  mar  it  from 
the  beginning." 

Everet  Mapleson's  eyes  gleamed  sfrangely  at  this,  and  a  spot 
of  bright  color  leaped  into  his  cheeks. 

'•On  what  steamer  do  they  sail?"  he  inquired. 

"Ou   the  Scythia,  from  Boston,  owiug  to  Borne  business  con- 


234:  "HE  IS  NOT  NAMELESS." 

nected  with  that  city.  That  is  why  tlio  marriage  and  reception 
are  set  so  early  ;  they  leave  New  York  on  an  evening  train,  and 
will  arrive  in  Boston  early  the  next,  morning;.  Oh!"  conc-lniled 
the  young  lady,  with  a  sigh,  "1  shall  miss  Gladys  more  than  I 
can  tell  you." 

"No  doubt."  Everet  observed;  and  then,  after  conversing  a 
few  moments  longer  upon  indifferent  topit-.-»,  huviug  obtained  all 
the  points  he  wished,  he  arose  to  take  his  leave. 

His  chief  object  in  calling  had  been  to  assure  himself  that,  ha 
had  not  been  misinformed  regarding  any  of  the  details  of  the  ap 
proaching  marriage. 

His  next  plan  was  to  meet  Gladys  somewhere,  if  possible. 

It  was  easy  enough  to  do  this,  by  securing  invitations  to  the 
receptions  among  the  elite,  and  a  few  evenings  later  he  found 
her  at  a  fashionable  party  on  Lexington  avenue. 

She  seemed  lovelier  than  ever,  with  the  rosy  glow  of  perfect 
health  on  her  face,  her  beautiful  eyes  gleaming  with  happiness, 
and  her  lips  wreathed  with  smiles. 

Her  dress,  on  this  occasion,  was  vastly  becoming,  consisting 
of  a  deep  shade  of  ecru,  embroidered  with  a  delicate  shaiie  of 
blue  intermingled  with  silver.  Ornaments  of  silver  in  rilijrree, 
and  set  with  diamonds,  were  on  her  neck  and  arms,  while  a 
graceful  aigrette  of  blue  and  white  was  fastened  in  her  hair  by  a 
Star,  to  mate! i  her  other  ornaments. 

She  started  slightly  as  she  met  Everot  Mapleson's  glance  fixed 
upon  her.  He  was  HO  much  like  Geoffrey  that  it  was  almost  im 
possible,  even  now,  for  her  to  distinguish  them  apart. 

The  next  moment  he  was  bowing  before  her,  with  extended 
hand. 

"It  seems  a  long  time  since  we  met,  Miss  Huntress,"  he  said, 
in  a  tone  which  deepened  the  color  in  her  checks,  for  it  reminded 
her  vividly  of  not  only  their  last  meeting,  but  also  their  part 
ing. 

But  she  thought  best  to  ignore  it  all,  and  so  returned  his  greet 
ing  with  lady-like  courtesy. 

"i  suppose  you  have  been  in  yonr  Southern  home,  Mr.  Ma- 
pleson,"  she  said.  "I  should  think  yon  would  hardly  like  to 
leave  its  genial  climate  for  our  rigorous  winter  here." 

"There  are  sometimes  stronger  attractions  than  a  genial  cli 
mate  in  winter,"  he  replied,  with  an  earnest  look  into  her  lovely 
eyes. 

"Yes,  New  York  is  very  attractive  just  now,"  she  returned,  de 
termined  not  to  appropriate  his  significant  remark  to  herself. 
"Do  you  remain  here  long?" 

"I  think  I  may  stav  through  this  inonfh  "  he  answered,  with 
an  emphasis  upon  the  last  two  words  that  brought  the  quick 
blood  again  to  h^r  cheeks,  for  she  knew  that  he  was  thinking  of 
her  approaching  marriage. 

Still,  she  waa  willfully  obtuse. 


"HE  IS  NOT  NAMELESS."  236 

"What!"  she  exclaimed,  archly.      "Can  you  content  yourself 
away  from  home  during  the  holidays?" 

"Yes — at  least  for  this  year.     Miss  Huntress,  will  yon  give  my 
name  a  place  upon  your  dancing-list?"  he  asked,  glancing  at  the 
card  that  was  suspended  by  a  silken  cord  from  her  corsage. 
Gladys  opened  and  held  it  up  before  him,  with  a  smile. 
It  was  full,  and  she  was  glad  it  happened  so. 
His  face  fell,  for  his  quick   glance  detected  Geoffrey's  name 
against  several  dances 

"I  am  too  late,  I  perceive,"  he  said,  with  a  bow;  '-but,  per 
chance  I  may  be  more  fortunate  before  the  month  is  out." 

Something  in  his  tone  more  than  the  words  made  her  regard 

him  closely,  and  a  sort  of  chill  smote  her  heart  as  she  marked  the 

peculiar  gleam  in  his  eye  and  the  resolute  lines  about  his  mouth. 

Some  one  claimed   her  just  then,  and,  with   a  polite  bow,  sbe 

excused  herself  and  left  him,  glad  to  get  awav  from  his  presence. 

The  next  time  they  met  was  more  than  a  week  later,  at  the 

opera. 

Gladys  was  spending  a  few  days  with  her  friend,  Addie  Lor- 
ing.  It  was  to  be  her  last  visit  before  her  marriage,  and  the  two 
girls  were  making  the  most  of  it. 

Mr.  Loving  invited  them  to  accompany  him  to  bear  Parepa 
Rosa,  and  sent  word  to  Geoffrey  to  join  them;  but  he  had  an  en 
gagement  for  the  first  half  of  the  evening,  and  could  not;  he 
would,  however,  joiu  them  later,  he  said  in  the  note  that  he  sent 
his  betrothed. 

Mrs.  Loring  was  not  well,  and  did  not  feel  equal  to  going  out, 
and  so  her  husband  had  to  be  both  chaperon  and  escort  for  the 
young  ladies. 

Everet  Mapleson  saw  them  the  moment  they  entered  their  box, 
while  it  was  not  long  before  Miss  Loring  discovered  iiis  vicinity, 
•when  she  bowed  and  smiled  most  cordially.  A  moment  later  she 
leaned  forward  and  whispered  to  h»rr  father,  who  nodded  assent, 
and  then  made  a  signal  for  Everet  to  come  and  join  his  party. 

The  voting  man  needed  no  second  invitation,  and  was  soon 
seated  between  the  two  young  ladies,  payly  parrying  Miss  Lor- 
ing's  witty  shots  at  his  having  come  to  the  opera  nil  alone,  when 
there  were  so  many  belles  and  beauties  who  would  have  been  de 
lighted  to  share  the  pleasure  with  him. 

Gladys  drew  herself  a  little  apar1:.  'She  felt  uncomfortable  to 
have  him  there,  under  any  circum stances,  while,  too.  she  w;is  in 
terested  in  the  opera,  and  it  annoyed  her  to  have  those  around 
her  conversing,  even  though  it  wns  scarcely  above  their  breath. 
When  the  curtain  went  down,  after  the  second  act,  Addie  Lor- 
inc  raided  her  gl-.iss  and  began  gazing  about  her. 

Suddenly  her  face  lighted,  and^ending  forward,  she  waved 
her  hand  to  some  one  in  the  audience  near  them. 

'•Oh.  papa,"  she  said,  turning  eagerly  to  her  father,  "thero  is 
Sadie  Nutting!  She  must  have. "returned  on  the  last  steam,  r. 


236  "HE  IS  NO  T  If  A  MELES?. " 

See!  she  is  beckoning  to  me.  Will  yon  take  me  to  her  just,  fora 
few  moments,  while  tlie  curtain  is  down?  1  am  sure  Gladys 
and  Mr.  Mapleson  will  exsnse  us  and  entertain  each  other  while 
we  are  gone,  and  we  won't  be  five  minutes." 

Mr,  Loring  glanced  nt  Everet,  hoping  he  would  offer  to  es 
cort  liis  daughter,  for  he  was  too  comfortably  seated  to  care  ti> 
be  disturbed, 

But  the  young  man  had  HO  such  intention;  this  was  just  the 
opportunity  he  had  been  wanting,  ever  since  he  came  to  New 
York,  inn!  lie  meant  to  improve  it,  even  though  he  should  have 
only  "live  minutes."  He  said: 

"Certainly,  certainly,"  to  Miss  Loring,  "go,  by  all  means,  to 
Bee  your  friend,  if  yon  wish,"  and  he  watched  the  father  anil 
daughter  with  a  secret  thrill  of  triumph  as  they  weufc  out,  leav 
ing  him  alone  with  Gladys. 

She  was  greatly  disturbed  by  the  incident. 

She  could  not  blame  Addie,  for  she  knew  that  she  was  ignor 
ant  of  her  feelings  toward  Everet  Mapleson;  but  she  wished, 
with  all  her  heart,  that  Geoffrey  would  come,  so  that  she  need 
not  be  alohe  with  Everet. 

The  moment  the  doors  closed  upon  Mr.  Loring  and  his 
daughter,  Everet  turned  smilingly  toward  his  companion,  and 
drew  his  chair  nearer  to  her. 

"Thank  the  fates,  and  that  giddy  girl,  for  this  supreme  mo 
ment,"  lie  began,  in  a  low,  passionate  tone;  adding:  "Gladys, 
Lave  yon  forgotten  our  last  private  interview  at  Vassar?" 

Ghvdvs  looked  up  ut  him,  .both  startled  and  indignant. 

"I  should  be  ghid  to  lorget  it,  Mr.  Mapleson,  if  you  would 
allow  me  to  do  so,  for  your  sake  as  well  as  niy  own,"  she  re 
turned,  with  cold  dignity. 

"I  do  not  wish  you  to  forget  it,  Gladys,"  he  returned,  with 
increasing  fervor,  "for  I  love  you  a  hundred  fold  more  to-night, 
and  I  must  unburden  my  heart  to  you,  or  it  will  burst." 

"Mr.  Maplesou!"  Gladys  said,  half  rising  from  her  chair,  a 
flash  of  anger  in  her  eyes,  "you  shall  not  say  such  things  to  me; 
you  know  you  have  no  right '* 

"I  have  a  right,''  he  interposed,  hotly;  "a  right  because  of  my 
deathless  love  and  my  indomitable  purpose  to  win  yours  in  re 
turn." 

"Y<>u  cannot!  how  dare  you?"  Gladys  began  again,  but  he 
Would  not  1ft  her  go  on. 

"I  dare,  because  I  must  dare  or  die!  oh!  Gladys,  I  love  you 
so!  have  pity  on  me!'  he  said,  and  his  voice  died  away  in  aa 
agonized  whisner,  showing  how  terribly  in  earnest  he  was. 

The  yoi.ng  gill  was  deathly  pale  now,  and  trembling  in  every 
limb;  but  she  faced  him  witk  blazing  eyes  and  curling  lips,  her 
perfect  form  proudly  erect. 

"Yon  are  no  gentleman,"  she  said,  scornfully,  "to  fmy  such 
words  to  one  who,  in  less  thau  two  weeks,  will  be  the  wife  of  an- 


"HE  IS  NOT  NAMELESS"  257 

other  man;  to  take  advantage  of  roe  during  the  absence  of  nay 
friends,  and  in  a  place  like  this  force  such  a  declaration  up 
on  me." 

"I  conld  not  help  it;  I  had  no  other  time;  you  avoid  me  upon 
every  occasion,"  he  returned,  the  blood  flushing  his  face  hotly 
at  her  scorn. 

"I  have  uo  choice;  your  looks,  your  acts  all  compel  ma 
to " 

"I  cannot  help  them — when  I  nm  near  you  I  forget  every 
thing  l>nt  that  I  love  you!"  he  pleaded  in  excuse. 

"Shame!  Where  is  your  sense  of  honor,  that  you  persist  in 
such  language  to  the  affianced  of  another?"  she  panted. 

"Twice  you  have  thrown  that  in  my  teeth,"  he  retorted, 
fiercely,  and  fast  losing  eou*rol  of  himself.  "Have  you  no 
shame,  that  you  confess  yourself  the  affianced  of  a  nameless  out 
cast?" 

"He  is  not  nameless,  and  you  have  no  authority  for  calling 
him  an  outcast,"  retorted  Gladys,  proudly,  all  her  spirit  rising 
to  arms  at  this  attack  upon  her  absent  lover. 

"Haven  t  I?"  sneered  the  hot-headed  young  man.  "Listen. 
I  have  been  looking  up  Geoffrey  Dale's  pedigree,  since  1  saw 
you  last.  I  have  traced  him  to  his  Uirthplt.ce.  His  mother 
was  a  poor,  but  beautiful  girl,  without  a  home,  without  friends. 
She  had  a  rich  lover,  who  could  not  marry  her  without  sacrific 
ing  a  fortune,  and  he  loved  his  money  t<>o  well  to  do  that,  so  ha 
sacrificed  the  girl  instead.  Ho  took  her  to  a  remote  mining 
district,  where,  hidden  away  from  every  one  who  ever  knew  her, 
ehu  lived  with  him  for  one  short  year,  nnd  died  when  her  child 
was  only  a  month  old.  That  child  was  Geoffrey  Dale;  his  moth 
er's  name  was  Annie  Dale,  and  he  has  no  right  to  nny  other,  ex 
cept  the  one  that  has  been  given  him  for  charity's  sake.  You 
have  a  right  to  be  proud  of  your  betrothed,  Miss  Huntress." 

"I  am  proud  of  him!  '  Gladys  returned,  in  a  firm,  even  tone. 
Astonishment  at  Ev^ret  Mapleson  knowing  so  much  about  G«of- 
frey  had  contributed  more  toward  calming  her  excited  nerves 
than  almost  anything  else  could  have  done.  "Yes,  I  am  proud 
of  him, "she  repeated,  with  a  change  of  emphasis,  "and  you  Iniva 
told  me  nothing  new,  Mr.  Mapleson.  excepting  that  this  young 
girl  had  no  home  or  friends,  and  that  the  man  who  took  her  to 
New  Mexico  was  rich,  and  willfully  wronged  her.  Indeed,  I 
know-  even  more  than  you  have  told  me." 

"Mora!  Do  you  know  who  his  father  was?"  Everet  Mapleson 
exclaimed,  with  a  start. 

"No,  nor  do  I  wish  to,  if  he  was  guilty  of  the  atrocious  act  you 
have  named,"  Gladys  returned,  with  '••itluM'ing  scorn.  "But  tha 
Bin  will  some  day  recoil  upon  hw  o  vn  head;  it  can  never  change 
my  regard  for  one  who  is  innately  no1  le  and  true." 

"And  you  do  not  shrink  from  In-coming  the  wife  of  one  upon 
whom  shame  has  rested  from  the  hour  of  his  birth?"  demanded 


238  A  THREAT  AND  A   WH.DDING-RJNG. 

Everet  Mapleson,  regarding  the  beautiful  girl  with  astonish 
ment. 

"No,"  she  replied,  steadfastly;  "no  shame  restsupon  him;  that 
all  belongs  to  the  preceding  generation;  but  I  should  shrink 
with  loathing  from  the  man  who  betrayed  Annie  Dale,  as  you 
represent,  were  he  lord  or  prince — he  is  only  worthy  of  my  con 
tempt,  and  I  would  scorn  him  as  I  would  the  veriest  blackleg  in 
this  city." 

Thp  young  man  flushed  hotly.  It  was  not  pleasant  to  listen  to 
such  words,  believing  what  he  did;  they  touched  a  sensitive 
Bpot. 

"But  this  man  of  whom  I  have  told  you  is  a  gentleman,  never 
theless,"  he  said. 

"A  gentleman  ?" 

The  words  were  uttered  in  the  quietest  possible  tone,  but  the 
contempt  which  trembled  through  it  was  matchless,  and  made 
the  young  man  wince  as  under  a  lash. 

"Your  distinctions  are  more  nice  than  wise,  Miss  Huntress; 
but,  mark  my  words,  yon  shall  never  marry  this  man's  illegiti 
mate  son!"  he  hissed,  driven  almost  to  a  frenzy  by  her  words, 
her  look,  and  tone. 

She  turned  upon  him,  her  face  colorless,  but  with  eyes  gleam 
ing  like  two  points  of  tire. 

"Yon  insult  me,  sir!  Yon  insult  one  who  is  a  hundred  fold 
more  noble  than  yourself,  by  the  use  of  such  vile  language. 
Bnt."  and  she  raised  one  daintily  gloved  hand  to  enforce  her 
•words,  "were  his  name  doubly  tainted  by  the  sin  of  others,  it 
could  not  smirch  the  man  I  honor — the  man  I  love.  It  will  he 
the  proudest  day  of  my  life  when  I  wed  Geoffrey  Dale  Huntress, 
a.s  Ishall,  in  spite  of  all  that  you  have  told  me  to-night,  ay,  even 
though  you  should  do  your  worst,  and  proclaim  it  from  every 
house-top  in  this  city." 

She  was  glorious,  in  her  haughty  pride  and  indignation,  as  she 
gave  utterance  to  these  loyal  sentiments,  and  Everet  Mapleson 
instinctively  shrank  before  her  with  a  sense  of  shame  and  humil 
iation.  At  that  moment  the  doors  behind  them  swung  open, 
and  Geoffrey  himself  entered  the  box. 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

A   THREAT   AND   A   WEDDING  KINO. 

Gladys'  first  impulse,  upon  beholding  her  lover,  was  to  spring 
toward  him,  denounce  the  man  who  had  so  insulted  her  and 
him,  and  demand  to  be  conducted  from  his  presence. 

But  her  judgemnt  told  her  that  this  would-  ho  very  unwise; 
there  must  be  no  scene  in  that  public  place;  there  must  be  no 
quarrel  between  these  two  men,  and  perhaps  it  would  be  bettar 


A  THREAT  AND  A  WEDDING-KING.  239 

that  Geoffrey  should  never  know  tliat  Everet  Mapleson  held  the 
secret  of  his  birth.  She  knew  that  he  would  never  vest  until  he 
hail  wrung  it  from  him,  and  that,  she  believed,  would  never  be 
done  without  bitter  feelings,  and  perhaps  strife. 

So,  with  a  mighty  effort,  sue  controlled  herself,  drew  her 
cloak  a'-KMit  her  shoulders  to  hide  the  heaving  of  her  bosom,  as 
sliw  aro.se  and  turned  a  smiling,  though  still  pale  face,  toward 
her  lover. 

"You  have  come,  Geoffrey;  I  am  very  glad.  You  will  recog 
nize  an  old  classmate  iu  Mr.  Mapleson,"  she  said,  as  she  moved 
her  chair  farther  into  the  shadow  of  the  draperies  and  made 
room  for  Geoffrey  between  herself  and  her  other  companion. 

Everet  tegarded  the  girl  with  wondering  admiration.  He 
knew  that  she  was  laboring  under  intense  excitement,  and  that 
it  required  no  light  effort  on  her  part  to  conceal  it.  He  under 
stood  her  motives — that  she  wished  to  avoid  a  quarrel  and  a 
scene,  mid  he  thought  her  tact  inimitable. 

Geoffrey  greeted  his  former  college-mate  courteously,  which, 
greeting  Mapk-son  returned  with  a  cold,  rather  supercilious 
bow.  He  was  always  conscious  of  his  own  moral  inferiority 
•when  iu  Geoffrey's  presence,  and  the  feeling  galled  him  exces 
sively. 

Geoffrey  saw  at  once,  in  spite  of  Gladys'  efforts  to  conceal  it, 
thut  something  had  gone  wrong  with  her,  and  he  rightly  guessed 
that  Everet  Mapleson  had  been  the  cause  of  it.  He  gently  seat 
ed  her,  and  then  placed  himself  beside  her,  while  Mr.  Loring 
and  his  daughter  returned  at  that  moment,  and  the  party  settled 
themselves  very  comfortably  for  the  remainder  of  the  evening. 

Everet  devoted  himself  exclusively  to  Miss  Loring,  much  to 
that  young  lady's  secret  delight;  her  father  gave  his  attention 
entirely  to  the  stage,  thus  leaving  Geoffrey  and  Gladys  to  them 
selves. 

"What  is  it,  dear?  what  has  troubled  you?"  Geoffrey  asked, 
bending  tenderly  toward  his  betrothed,  as  he  became  more  con 
scious  of  the  difficulty  she  was  laboring  under  to  retain  her  com 
posure. 

Gladys  stole  one  little  hand  confidingly  into  his,  under  cover 
of  her  opera  cloak. 

"Never  mind,  Geoff,  now  that  I  have  you  here;  I  will  tell  yon 
some  other  time,"  she  whispered,  as  she  involuntarily  turned 
her  still  flashing  eyes  toward  young  Mapleson,  while  a  slight 
shiver  ran  through  her  frame. 

Geffrey's  glance  followed  hers,  and  his  face  clouded. 

"Has  he  dared "  he  began,  sternly. 

"Hush!"  she  returned;  "it  is  all  past;  he  will  never  dare 
again." 

She  saw  that  Geoffrey  needed  but  a  word  to  make  him  de 
mand  an  explanation  of  his  riv:il,  and  sue  I'enred  the  worst  from 
a  meeting  between  them;  so  sue  resolved  that  she  would  not  u  11 


240  A  THREAT  AND  A 

Lira  what  Everet  had  told  her  regarding  liia  parentage;  at  least, 
not  until  after  their  marriage;  perhaps,  when  they  were  on  the 
ocean,  where  it  would  lie  impossible  for  him  to  take  any  aggres 
sive  measures  until  time  liad  served  to  cool  his  anger,  bhe  might 
reveal  to  him  what  she  hud  learned. 

So  she  tried  to  smile  and  appear  interested  in  the  opera,  while 
every  moment  she  wished  it  \vonld  end  so  that  she  might  be  re 
leased  from  that  terrible  constraint. 

It  was  over  at  last,  to  her  intense  relief. 

Everet  Mapleson  escorted  Miss  Loring  from  the  building, 
but  when  the  party  readied  the  sidewalk  they  found  Mich  a 
crowd  before  them  that  they  were  obliged  to  step  back  and  wait 
lor  it  to  disperse  before  they  could  get  to  their  carriage. 

In  doing  this,  Eve'vt  Maplesou  had  managed  so  that  ho  should 
Btand  close  beside  Gladys,  for  he  had  determined  to  fire  a  part- 
lug  shot  at  her. 

He  luul  been  covertly  watching  her  ever  since  their  interview, 
aud  her  attidude  of  trust  and  confidence  toward  Geoffrey  had 
been  almost  maddening  to  him. 

She  was  beautiful  beyond  comparison  when  she  faced  him  in 
ber  indignation,  defending  hei  absent  lover,  and  resenting  the 
insult  offered  to  herself;  he  had  never  seen  her  so  spirited  be 
fore,  and  it  lent  an  added  charm  to  her  fascinations,  while  he 
was  filled  with  impotent  rage  that  he  was  powerless  to  awaken 
any  feelings  in  her  heart  for  him,  tave  those  of  scorn  and  cou- 
teiupt. 

"Why  should  he  win?"  he  cried  within  himself,  as  lie.  marked 
Geoffrey's  air  of  tender  proprietorship;  "he  who  has  not,  even  a 
name  to  otter  her,  while  I,  who  am  heir  to  the  proud  escutcheon 
of  Mapleson,  and  to  a  double  fortune,  perhaps  a  triple  one,  if  he 
never  discovers  who  lie  is,  am  able  to  excite  nothing  but  aversion 
and  contempt.  I  swear  I  will  not  submit  to  it.  and  1  wi'l  fi,id 
Borne  wuy  to  part  them,  ev«  n  now.  He  has  crossed  my  path  too 
ui:inv  times.  1  have  never  forgiven  iiirn  on  the  old  score,  and  I 
Vrill  never  forgive  him  for  being  an  interloper  in  my  mc«>." 

All  this  was  in  his  mind  us  lie  stood  close  beside  the  young 
bride-elect,  while  waiting  for  Mr.  Loring's  carriage,  and  some 
evil  spirit  possessed  him  to  n«sai!  her  again. 

"Miss  Huntress,"  he  whispered,  so  close  to  her  ear  that  no  one 
could  possibly  hear  him  in  (lie  tumult  around  them,  "doubtless 
you  have  heard  that  old  saving.  'There  is  many  a  slip  'twixt  cup 
and  lip.'  ' 

Gladys  never  noticed  hi«i  by  go  much  as  a  glance.  She  might 
liave  been  some  beautiful  statue,  and  deaf  to  all  sounds,  for  any 
evidence  that  she  gave  of  having  heard  him.  And  y»  t  he  knew 
Bhe  could  not  have  failed  to  catch  every  word  that  he  Lad  ot 
tered. 

His  blood  began  to  boil  at  bring  thus  ignored. 

"Do  you  imagine  that  I  shall  tamely  submit  to  see  anothcv 


A  Til  HEAT  AND  A   WS.UDlXG-mKO.  241 


man  win  you,  and  he  so  far  beneath  von  ?  It  shall  never 
be  f" 

Gladys  tnnieil  at  this,  an»l  looked  straight  into  his  eyes,  and 
actually  stuiled  —  a  smile  that  tiro.'e  him  almost  to  a  fnjiizy  ;  it 
was  like  a  winter's  sunbeam  reflected  from  ice  —  sharp,  dazzling, 
chilling. 

'•The/o/Mre  tense  is  not  applicable  in  this  case.  Mr.  Mapleson," 
she  ivtoited,  in  as  icy  a  tone,  while  tin*  air  \\it.i  which  she  set« 
tied  tier  small  hand  more  firmly  within  her  lover's  arm  plainly 
said,  4>I  am  already  won!" 

Everet  Maplesim  ground  his  teeth  in  haffl.M  rage.  It  was  evi 
dent  that  in  uu  open  battle  Miss  Huntress  was  too  much  for 
him. 

"Wait,"  lie  whispered  again  ;  "th<>  thirtieth  may  tell  a  different 
Story  ;  at  all  events,  you  are  warned." 

She  did  not  deign  to  notice  his  threat,  and,  an  opening  now 
presenting  itself,  Mr.  Loriug  led  the  way  to  the  carriage,  where, 
alter  assisting  his  companion  to  enter,  Mr.  Majdesou  took  his 
leave  of  the  purty  and  went  his  way. 

Geoffrey  was  very  much  disturbed  when  Gladys  told  him  that 
Everet  Mapleson  had  again  presumed  to  address  words  of  love 
to  her  —  for  she  had  decided  that  this  was  all  the  explanation  of 
the  affair  at  the  opera  that  she  would  give  him  at  present  —  and 
it  required  all  her  power  of  persuasion  to  prevent  him  from  dt»- 
niiiiiding  an  apology  for  the  insult. 

"Let  it  puss,  dear;  pray  let  us  have  no  trouble  at  this  time," 
she  had  urged. 

'•But  you  are  almost  ray  wife,  Gladys,  and  it  is  a  terrible 
affront  to  me  as  well  as  to  you,"  Geoffrey  returned,  hotly. 

"He  is  so  far  beneath  you,  Geoff,  morally,  that  I  cannot  b«ar 
to  have  you  lower  yourself  enough  to  notice  him.  and  believe 
me,  he  received  a  lesson  that  he  will  not  soon  forget,"  Gladys 
concluded,  with  a  spirit  and  energv  that  both  amused  and  de 
lighted  Geoffrey,  who  well  knew  what  his  betrothed  was  capable 
of  when  once  thoroughly  aroused,  and  he  could  imagine  some 
thing  of  the  scorn  which  the  offender  in  question  had  called 
down  upon  his  devoted  head  b\  his  presumption.  So  he  finally 
promised  that  he  would  not  agitate  too  matter  further,  and  he 
realized  that  it  might  result  in  a  scandal  that  would  prove  very 
annoying  just  at  that  time. 

It  seemed,  too,  as  if  Everet  Mapleson  himself  had  no  desire  to 
come  iu  contact  with  his  successful  rival,  for  he  suddenly 
dropped  out  of  society,  and  was  seen  no  more  during  the  inter 
val  between  that  odMrreuoa  at  the  opera  and  the  thirtieth. 

He  was  greatly  missed,  however,  by  ma  .y  of  the  languishing 
l>elles.  for  he  was  esteemed  "a  great  catch."  and  had  been  most 
industriously  angled  for  by  numerous  anxious  mammas,  and 
scheming  fathers  with  a  doubtful  bank  account. 

Miss  Addie  Loring,  perhaps,  really  took  his  sudden  and  unao* 


242  A  THREAT  AND  A   WEDDISQ-RINQ. 

countable  absence  more  to  heart  than  tvny  one  else,  for  she  had 
secretly  began  to  entertain  a  tender  liking  lor  him. 

During  the  last  week  before  the  wedding,  that  event  became 
the  chief  topic  <*f  the  day  in  the  circle  in  winch  Gladys  and 
Geoffrey  moved,  for  the  match  was  considered  a  most  nanautio 
one,  aud  both  parties  were  especial  favorites,  while  for  brilliancy 
and  magnitude  it  was  to  be  the  affair  of  the  season. 

Gifts  of  every  description  poured  in  upon  the  young  couple, 
for  whom  their  friends  seemed  unable  to  do  enough  to  manifest 
their  regard  for  them. 

"Mamma,  I  have  silver  and  china  enough  to  set  up  four  estab 
lishments  ;  what  shall  I  do  with  it  all  V"  Gladys  laughingly 
remarked,  one  morning,  after  the  arrival  of  numerous  packages 
and  cases.  ''While  as  for  jewelry,  brie  a  br<ic,  and  ornaments," 
she  continued,  ''I  shall  never  have  room  nor  opportunity  to  dis 
play  them  all." 

"You  have  been  most  lavishly  remembered,  dear,"  returned 
Mrs.  Huntress  ;  but  she  sighed  while  she  smiled  over  the 
evidences  of  her  daughter's  popularity,  as  she  thought  of -the 
care  and  responsibility  which  it  would  entail  upon  her  in 
the  future. 

"It  is  very,  very  nice  to  be  remembered  by  one's  friends,  and 
pleasant  to  know  that  one  has  so  many."  Gladvs  said,  thought 
fully  taking  up  a  delicate  vase,  which  rude  handling  would  have 
crushed  to  atoms,  but  which  she  knew  represented  a  large 
amount  of  money,  "but  if  they  would  only  give  me  some  simple 
little  token,  just  to  show  that  they  really  care  for  me,  I  should 
not  feel  quite  so  overwhelmed.  Perhaps  I  am  too  sensitive  and 
notional,  but  I  think  the  weight  of  obligation  which  is  some 
times  imposed  upon  brides  is  almost  frightful,  that  is,  unless 
they  marry — as  I  am  not  doing — naea  who  can  enable  them  to  in 
dulge  in  similar  extravagance  in  return  later  on." 

"There  is  a  good  deal  of  sense  in  what  you  sav,  Gladys,"  re 
turned  her  mother,  "but  these  beautiful  and  expensive  things 
represent  branches  of  industries,  and  somebody  must  purchase 
them  in  order  that  certain  classes  of  artisans  may  live.  It  is 
bard  to  know  where  to  draw  the  line  in  these  tilings.  It  would 
not  \i°  so  questionable,  though,  if  people  would  be  really  honest 
in  their  gifts  and  offer  only  what  they  could  afford,  instead  of 
trying  to  outdo  others  from  a  feeling  of  vanity." 

But,  in  spite  of  these  practical  discussions,  there  seemed  to  be 
no  end  to  the  accumulation  of  wedding  gifts  up  to  the  last  mo 
ment. 

The  wedding-day  dawned,  a  bright,  mild  winter  morning,  and 
every  hour  was  filled  with  preparations  for  the  important  cere 
mony  that  was  to  occur  early  i;i  the  evening. 

Geoffrey  saw  but  little  of  his  betrothed  that  day,  for  he  had 
many  duties  to  attend  to  relating  to  their  departure,  and  l«st 
instructions  to  receive  regarding  the  business  he  had  under- 


A  THREAT  AND  A  WEDDING-RING.  243 

taken.  But  about  two  in  the  afternoon  he  came  home  to  find 
Gladys  just  going  to  her  room,  from  which  she  would  not  come 
forth  again  until  she  was  prepared  for  her  marriage. 

"I  am  only  just  in  time,  I  perceive,  to  take  leave  of  Miss 
Glayds  Huntress,"  he  said,  smiling  fondly  upon  her,  as  he  drew 
her  into  the  music-room,  and  shut  the  door,  for  a  few  moments' 
private  chat  with  her. 

"You  do  not  look  more  than  sixteen,"  he  continued,  touching 
the  light  rings  of  hair  that  lay  on  her  forehead,  and  smoothing 
the  great  satiny  braid,  that  had  been  allowed  to  hang,  like  a 
schoolgirl's,  down  her  back,  uutil  the  hair-dresser  should  come, 
"a.nd  very  little  as  if  a  few  hours  would  make  you  somebody's 
— wife." 

Gladys  flushed  at  that  last  word,  though  a  happy  little  laugh 
rippled  from  her  lips. 

"Perhaps  I  shall  appear  more  matronly  by  and  by,"  she  said. 
"I!,  is  possible  that  putting  'Mrs.'  before  my  name  may  make 
quite  a  change.  How  queer  it  will  seem  to  be  married  and  yet 
be  Gladys  Huntress  still?" 

Geoffrey's  face  clouded,  and  a  pang  shot  through  his  heart. 

"I  wish  it  could  be  otherwise,  darling,  I  wish  I  had  an  hon 
ored  name  to  give  you,"  he  said,  regretfully. 

Gladys  put  up  her  hand  and  drew  down  his  head  until  their 
lips  met. 

"Dear  Geoff,  forgive  me,"  she  pleaded,  in  a  tone  of  self-re 
proach,  "I  was  very  thoughtless  to  make  such  a  speech.  I  shall 
be  just  as  happy  to  be  called  Mrs.  Geoffrey  Dale  Huntress,  as 
anything  else;  my  pride  will  not  consist  in  my  name,  but  in  my 
husband." 

His  arms  closed  about  her  more  fondly. 

He  knew  that  sho  loved  him  with  all  the  strength  of  her  pure 
and  noble  nature — that  she  had  chosen  him  from  among  the 
many  admirers  who  would  gladly  have  bestowed  a  proud  name, 
as  well  as  fortune,  upon  her,  and  that  ho  ought  to  be  content. 

But  he  was  not;  it  raiTktad,  like  a  thorn  in  his  heart,  that  he 
had  no  name  to  give  her — that  for  want  of  one  he  was  compelled 
to  assume  hers. 

Neither  he  nor  Gladys  had  ever  been  told  of  her  adoption; 
both  believed  that  she  was  August  and  Alice  Huntress'  own 
child,  and,  somehow,  a  feeling  of  obligation,  that  was  almost  de 
gradation,  would  now  and  then  assail  him,  that  he  was  obliged 
to  identify  himself  in  this  way. 

"Geoffrey,"  Gladys  continued,  seeing  the  cloud  still  on  his 
face,  "do  not  allow  so  slight  a  thing  to  cast  a  shadow  over  our 
joy  to-day.  I  am  so  happy — life  looks  so  bright  to  me,  that  I  am 
almost  afraid  it  is  all  a  dream,  and  I  shall  wake  up  to  find  it  all 
gone  from  my  grasp." 

He  could  not  resist  her  bright,  tender  face,  nor  the  beautiful, 
trustful  eyes  as  they  were  raised  to  his. 


244  A  THREAT  AND  A   WEDDIbG-RISQ. 

"My  own  love,"  he  replied,  bis  face  clearing,  "it  is  no  dream 
to  either  of  us — it  is  ill  a  delightful  reality,  and  anticipation  of 
the  happiness  before  us.  during  the  coming  six  months,  is  like  a 
poein  to  me.  But,"  he  added,  "I  suppose  I  must  not  detain  you 
here— have  you  everything  that  yon  need  or  wish  for  to 
night?" 

"I  believe  so;  but  truly.  Geoff.  I  wish  it  were  nil  over," 
Gladys  confessed,  clinging  to  him.  ''Sometimes  I  have  been 
Borry  that  we  agreed  to  have  all  this  fuss  and  excitement.  I  feel 
as  if  the  occasion  is  almost  too  sacred  for  the  gaze  of  the  curi 
ous,  and  to  be  mixed  np  s*>  with  show,  dress,  and  so  many  ot'.mr 
petty  details.  If  we  could  only  have  just  a  few  of  our  especial 
friends  with  us,  and  say  our  vows  quietly  and  solemnly,  right 
here  at  home,  I  believe  I  should  like  it  much  better." 

This  had  been  Geoffrey's  feeling  all  along;  but  it  was  Mr. 
Huntress'  desire  to  have  a  brilliant  wedding,  and  he  could  not 
find  it  in  his  heart  to  oppose  any  reasonable  wish  of  one  who 
had  been  so  kind  to  him. 

"Well,"  he  answered,  "we  can  comfort  ourselves  with  one 
thought;  the  'fuss  and  excitement'  will  not  last  long,  then  we 
shall  liava  each  other  all  to  ourselves.  But,  darling,  see  here." 
He  drew  a  tiny  case  from  his  pocket,  ami,  opening  it,  disclosed 
a  heavy  gold  circlet  resting  in  its  bed  of  velvet — "have  you  any 
idea  how  strong  this  little  fetter  is  going  to  be? — only  death  will 
ever  break  the  tie  that  it  will  cement." 

Gladys  bent  forward  to  look  at  the  mystio  symbol,  the  vivid 
color  surging  to  her  brow. 

"Oil,  Geofl!  what  a  heavy  one;  is  it  marked?"  she  said. 

"Yes,  and  that  i.s  wh\  I  slio-v  it  to  you— it  may  not  be  marked 
in  a  way  to  please  you,"  au;l  he  held  it  toward  her  for  examina 
tion. 

"Please  take  it  out  yourself  and  let  me  see — I  do  not  want  to 
touch  it,"  she  said,  drawing  slightly  away. 

He  laughed. 

"Why,  you  dear  little  goose!    are  yon  superstitious?" 

"N — o;  but  somehow  I  do  not  wish  to  touch  it  until  after  yon 
have  put  it  where  it  belongs,"  she  answered,  softly. 

He  removed  it  from  the  case,  holding  it  so  ihut  she  could 
see  the  engraving  on  its  inside  surface,  and  she  read,  "G.  D.  to 
G.  H.  Dec.  30,  18—." 

"G.  D. !"  she  repeated,  locking  tip  questioningly. 

"Yes,"  he  replied,  gravely.  "Forgive  me  for  referring  again 
to  an  unpleasant  topic,  but  I  could  not  bring  my  mind  to  add 
another  H.  there.  If  I  have  a  right  to  an  honored  name,  and 
find  it  out  sometime,  then  I  will  have  the  initial  inserted — you 
Bee,  I  have  had  space  left  for  it.  Do  you  mind?" 

"No,  Geoff,"  Gladys  returned,  after  a,  moment's  thought, 
though  her  'heart  sank  at  his  words,  as  she  remembered  what 
Everet  Mapleson  Lad  told  her,  "you  Lave  done  perfectly  right 


THE  WEDDING.  2« 

to  mark  the  ring  as  you  wish,  and,  of  course,  no  one  save  our- 
Belve*  ever  need  know  anything  about  it." 

He  ]»ut  it  away  with  a  sigh  of  relief. 

"1  am  glad  that  you  approve,  dear,"  he  said,  smiling,  "and 
BOW  mind  that  your  glove  is  properly  arranged,  ami  no  other 
ring  on  tin's,  my  especial  finger;  for  i,his  ring  must  never  come 
off  after  1  have  once  put  it  on,  unless  we  find  another  initial  to 
ndd  to  the  others.  Now,  good-by,  love,  for  the  next  three 
Lours.  I  shall  not  see  you  again  uutil  we  meet  at  church." 


CHAPTER  XXXVIIL 

THE    WEDDINO. 

went  to  her  room  with  a  sweet  and  tender  gravity  on 
her  beautiful  face. 

Every  passing  moment  made  her  feel  more  sensibly  the  sa- 
credness  of  the  vows  that  she  was  about  to  take  upon  herself, 
and  the  responsibilities  she  was  so  soon  to  assume. 

"I  know  this  great  joy  is  far  more  than  I  deserve,"  she  mur 
mured.  "1  cannot  understand  why  no  shadow  has  ever  been 
Allowed  to  cloud  my  life,  when  so  many  are  born  to  a  lot  of 
Borrow,  trial,  and  toil.  I  will  try  to  lift  the  burden  from  some 
hearts  in  the  future;  I  will  not  live  all  tcr  self,  but  reflect  some 
of  ray  own  happiness,  if  I  can,  to  brighten  other  lives  less  favored 
than  mine." 

Could  any  bride,  on  the  eve  of  her  marriage,  have  made  a 
holier  resolve  than  this? 

Very  lovely  she  looked,  when  she  came  forth  from  her  chamber, 
in  her  spotless  wedding  attire. 

Her  simple,  yet  elegant  dress,  of  white  ottoman  silk,  was  made 
en  train,  and  its  only  garnishing  was  the  voluminous  vail,  which 
covered  her  from  head  to  foot,  and  was  caught,  here  and  there, 
in  graceful  draperies,  with  clusters  of  orange  blossoms  and  lilies 
of  the  valley. 

Unlike  many  brides,  she  was  not  pale,  but  a  delicate  and 
lovely  color  was  on  her  cheek.  Her  eyes  were  brilliant  and  ex 
pressive  with  the  deep  and  hrly  joy  that  filled  her  heart,  and 
Bhe  was  calm  with  that  perfect  content  which  an  unwavering 
confidence  find  affection  alone  could  give. 

She  rode  alone  with  her  father,  who  was  to  give  her  away,  to 
Plymouth  Church,  where  Geoffrey  was  to  meet  her.  He  was  not 
there  when  they  arrived,  although  he  left  the  house  some  time 
previous  to  their  own  departure,  and  they  waited  for  him  in  the 
vestibule,  but  somewhat  anxiously,  as  it  was  already  five  min 
utes  past  the  hour  set  for  the  ceremony. 

At  last  there  was  a  slight  commotion  about  the  door,  and  a 
voice  was  heard  to  say: 


246  THE  WEDDING. 

"He  lias  come!     All  is  w»>ll  now!" 

Gladys  looked  up  as  he  carue  forward,  and  thought  he  looked 
a  trifle  pale  aud  excited,  but  it  might  be  because  the  light  was 
dim,  while  her  vail  rendered  everthing  a  little  indistinct. 

He  nodded  and  smiled  reassuringly  at  her,  however;  they 
•would  not  let  him  come  near  her,  for  her  dress  \\aa  all  arranged 
to  go  in,  and  must  not  be  disturbed,  while  her  maidens  were 
hovering  about  her  like  a  band  of  fairies  around  their  queen, 
and,  with  girlish  superstition,  they  waved  him  off,  saying  he 
must  not  speuk  to  her  again  until  after  the  ceremony. 

Mr.  Huntress  interviewed  hitn  regarding  the  delay,  and  then 
came  and  told  Gladys  it  had  been  caused  by  a  change  in  clergy 
men  at  the  last  moment.  Their  own  pastor  had  been  summoned 
by  telegraph  to  a  brother  who  was  lying  at  the  point  of  death, 
only  a  little  more  than  an  hour  previous,  and  had  been  obliged 
to  send  a  stranger— a  friend  who  happened  to  be  visiting  in  his 
family—  to  officiate  in  his  place. 

This  was  the  only  shadow  that  had  marred  the  young  bride's 
joy  that  day.  She  dearly  loved  her  noble  pastor,  and  was 
deeply  disappointed  not  to  have  him  pronounce  her  nuptial 
benediction. 

But  she  had  no  time  to  express  it,  for  Mr.  Huntress  gave  the 
signal  to  the  ushers  to  throw  open  the  church  doors,  while  the 
groom,  followed  by  his  attendants,  passed  down  oue  aisle,  and 
Gladys,  on  her  father's  arm  and  attended  by  her  maids,  went 
down  another. 

They  all  met  at  the  altar,  where  the  strange  clergyman  was 
already  awaiting  th«m. 

Every  bod  v  wondered  at  the  self-possession  and  the  lovely 
bloom  of  the  bride. 

But  the  secret  of  it  was  that  Gladys  forgot  herself  and  all  her 
surroundings;  forgot  the  crowd  of  witnesses  behind  her;  the 
curious  glances — the  place— everything  in  the  solemn  moment 
and  the  vows  she  was  plighting. 

The  clergyman,  stranger  though  he  was,  made  the  service 
very  beautiful  and  impressive,  while  the  few  words  of  kindly 
advice  and  congratulation  which  he  uttered  at  its  close,  when 
be  pronounced  the  young  couple  husband  and  wife,  were  ex 
ceedingly  apt  and  well  chosen. 

Then  it  was  over,  and  those  two,  before  whom  life  seemed 
reaching  out  so  fair  and  full  of-  promise,  passed  slowly  down 
the  center  aisle,  every  eye  following  them,  while  every  lip 
seemed  to  have  something  to  say  in  praise  of  them. 

Gladys  was  very  quiet  as  her  husband  put  her  into  the  car 
riage,  for  the  solemnity  of  the  service  was  still  upon  her,  He, 
too,  seemed  in  a  like  mood,  for  he  only  gathered  the  hand  that 
wore  his  ring  close  within  his  own,  and  thus  they  sat,  mute 
from  excess  of  joy,  during  their  drive  home. 

Very  tenderly  the  young  husband  helped   his  bride  to  alight, 


THE  WEDDING.  217 


led  her  up  the  steps,  iiewr  relinquishing  her  hand  until  he 
placed  her  beneath  the  mugnificent  arch  at  the  lower  end  of  the 
dntwing-ntou),  wheie  they  were  to  receive  the  congratulations 
of  their  I'riemls. 

They  had  driven  back  very  rapidly,  and  thus  they  had  gained 
several  minutes  to  themselves  before  the  arrival  of  any  others. 

"My  darling!  my  wife!"  said  the  exultant  young  husband,  us 
he  stretched  forth  his  arms  to  gather  his  beautiful  bride  to  his 
breast. 

Gladys  looked  up  with  a  startled,  searching  glance.  Some 
thing  in  his  tone  had  struck  strangely  on  her  ears,  although  lie 
had  spoken  scarcely  above  a  whisper.  She  saw  that  he  was 
etill  somewhat  pale,  but  his  whole  face  was  lighted  with  tri 
umph. 

''Geoff  --  "  she  began,  then  the  word  suddenly  froze  on  her 
lips,  a  bewildered  look  shot  in  her  eyes,  when  all  at  once  she 
started  away  from  him,  flijiging  out  her  arms  with  a  wild  ges 
ture  of  horror  and  loathing,  her  face  as  white  as  her  dress,  her 
eyes  almost  starting  from  her  head. 

'•EVERET  MAPLESON  !  Oh!  Heaven!  how  came  you  kere?" 
she  shrieked, 

He  strode  up  to  her,  the  look  of  triumph  still  on  his  pale 
face. 

"Because  I  have  a  right  to  be  here  —  beside  my  wife!" 

"Never!  never.'"  she  p.mteJ,  wildly.  'You  have  uo  right  —  I 
am  ?*  o/  your  wife  !" 

"But,  my  darling,  you  are.  I  hav«  never  left  your  side  for 
an  instant  since  we  were  pronounced,  before  Godaud  man,  to  be 
linsband  and  wife.  You  are  mine,  Gladys  !  by  the  laws  of  the 
land,  as  well  as  by  the  laws  of  God  !  You  plighted  your  vows 
to  mo  in  the  presence  of  hundreds  of  witnesses,  and  I  shall 
claim  you  before  all  the  world  !'* 

She  never  moved  while  he  was  saying  this.  She  stood  look 
ing  at  him  with  that  wild,  incredulous  light  still  in  her 
eyes,  that  deadly  whiteness  on  her  face,  her  arms  still  out 
stretched  in  that  attitude  of  horror  and  loathing. 

She  was  like  a  beautiful  piece  of  sculpture  that  had  suddenly- 
been  transformed  from  a  happy,  living  being  into  pulseless  mar 
ble  by  the  bliphtintr  influence  of  some  concealing  wand. 

"Can  you  not  believe  it,  and  be  sensible?"  Everet  Mapleson  — 
for  it  was  really  he  —  went  on  rapidly,  for  the  sound  of  wheels 
from  without  came  to  him,  and  he  knew  that  the  room  would 
be  full  in  a  few  moments.  "Do  not  make  a  scene.  You  are 
mine,  and  no  earthly  power  can  sever  the  bonds  that  unite  us! 
I  love  you  madly!  I  worship  you!  There  is  nothing  I  will 
not  do*to  prove  my  devotion  to  you  !  I  have  given  you  a  proud 
name  ;  1  have  wealth,  position,  influence,  and  I  am  your  slave 
if  you  will  give  mo  but  a  crumb  of  love  upon  which  to  feast  my 
hungry  heart.  Gladys,  again  I  implore  you  not  to  make  a 


248  THE  WEDDING. 

scene  !     Receive  your  friends  as  if  nothing  unforeseen  had    Imp 
pened,  nnd  they  will   never  suspect;  and    to-morrow  we.  will  go 
away  over  the  ocean,   and  leave  the  world   to  get  over  its  aston 
ishment  sis  best  it  can." 

He  paused,  for  the  horror,  the  despair  on  her  face,  which 
grew  every  iustant  more  terrible,  filled  him  with  fear  and  dis 
may. 

Site  did  not  stir  ;  she  was  as  if  frozen  in  that  attitude.  She 
simply  stood  staring  into  his  fai;e,  her  own  us  rigid  as  a  Ktot.e, 
but  with  such  suffering,  such  anguish,  in  that  fixed  gaze  as  he 
Lad  never  seen  depicted  in  human  eyes  before. 

Steps  and  voices  sounded  in  the  hall.  He  caught  a  glimpse 
of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Huntress  hurrying  iu,  to  be  the  first  to  oou- 
gratnhite  their  darling. 

Another  minute,  and  he  knew  there  must  cornea  fearful  dis 
closure  and  explosfon. 

He  moved  a  step  nearer  the  motionless  girl  and  attempted  to 
take  one  of  those  outstretched  hands  in  his. 

His  touch  seemed  to  unlock  those  tense  nerves  and  muscles 
as  if  by  mauic. 

She  shrank  away  from  him  with  a  low,  shuddering  cry,  and 
then,  without  word  or  warning,  fell  forward,  and  would  Lava 
dropped  to  the  floor  HH't  he  not  caught  her  in  his  arms. 

Mr.  Huntress,  who  entered  the  room,  at  that  moment,  sprang 
forward,  with  a  cry  cf  alarm. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  he  asked,  his  attention  all  con  contra  ted 
upon  Gladys,  and  never  suspecting  the  dreadful  trick  that  had 
been  played  upon  them  all. 

"The  excitement  has  been  too  much  for  her,  I  fear,"  E/eret 
responded,  in  a  low  tone. 

Mr.  Huntress  took  the  senseless  girl  from  him,  saying: 

"Open  that  door  behind  you;  we  must  get  her  away  befora 
that  crowd  comes  pouring  in.  My  poor  girl  !  what  can  have 
caused  this  unusual  fainting  turn?" 

Everet  eagerly  obeyed  his  command,  and  Glady's  was  bortva 
into  a  small  sitting-room,  and  laid  upon  a  sofa  there. 

The  next  moment  Mrs.  Huutress'  anxious  face  appeared  in  the 
door- way. 

"Oh.  August,  what  has  happened?"  she  cried. 

"Glatly's  has  fainted,  from  some  cause  or  other.  Go,  Geoff," 
he  continued,  turning  to  Everet,  "and  send  some  one  ini- 
mediatelv  for  Doctr.r  Hoyt." 

The  young  man  hastened  to  obey,  glad  to  get  away  from  tUe 
tight  of  that  white,  rigid  face  for  a  moment. 

He  found  a  servant  in  the  hall,  dispatched  him  for  tl.e 
family  physician,  and  then  went  back  to  his  post  beside 
Gladys. 

He  was  nearly  ao  pale  an  the  unconscious  bride,  for  he  kne*r 
that  the  truth  must  soon  oome  out,  and,  hardened  and  dogged  us 


THE  WEDDING.  249 

he  was,  the  prospect  of  the  inevitable  explosion  was  not  a  pleas- 
act  one. 

Mrs.  Huntress  was  on  lier  knees  beside  her  daughter,  bathing 
her  i'm;o  with  water,  which  she  had  poured  from  au  ice  pitcher 
standing  near. 

She  had  thrown  back  the  delicate  vail,  and  it  lay  nil  in  aheap, 
like,  a  fleecy  cloud,  about  the  pretty  In-own  head  upon  the  sofa 
pillow,  while  Mr.  Huntress  had  torn  off  his  gloves,  and  waa 
chaffing  tin-  small  limp  hands  with  anxious  solicitude. 

"What  could  have  been  the  cause  of  this?  When  was  she 
taken  ill?"  he  asked,  half  turning  toward  Everet,  but  still  keep 
ing  his  eyes  fastened  npon  the  face  he  loved  so  well. 

"Just  before  you  entered,  "Everet  answered,  in  a  clear,  natural 
tone. 

Mr.  Huntress  started,  and  turned  a  questioning  glance  upon 
him. 

Their  eves  met,  and  held  each  other  for  one  brief  moment. 

Then  Mr.  Huntress  dropped  the  hands  he  was  chaffing,  arose 
slowly  to  his  feet,  his  own  color  fast  receding. 

"Geoffrey?"  he  said,  in  a  doubtful  tone,  going  close  up  to  the 
young  man. 

•  No,  sir;  Evr.ret  Mapleson,  if  yon  please."  replied  the  young 
man,  haughtily,  as  with  a  mighty  effort  he  braced  himself  for 
the  encounter. 

"Jiv  Heaven,  it  is  f"  August  Huntress  hoarsely  exclaimed,  and 
recoiling  as  if  lie  hail  been  struck  a  heavy  blow.  "What — what 
is  the  meaning  of  this?" 

"It  means  that  your  daughter  has  become  my  wife  instead  of 
marrying  Geoffrey  Dale,  as  everybody  supposed  she  was  going 
to  do." 

Mrs.  H'intress  sprang  up  with  a  faint  shriek  at  this. 

"No,  no!'' she  cried,    '  that  cannot  be." 

Then,  as  slio  peered  closely  into  his  face,  and  realised  the 
truth  of  the  fearful  disclosure,  she  tottered  feebly  toward  her 
bus  hand,  meaning: 

"Oli,  August!  h«  hits  practiced  a  terrible  deception  npon  us, 
an. I  it  will  surely  kill  Gladys." 

Siie  was  almost  an  helpless  as  the  unconscious  girl  herself,  and 
her  husband  was  forced  to  put  her  into  a  rocker  that  stood  near 
him,  simply  because  he,  too,  was  so  weakened  and  unmanned  by 
what,  he  had  hei\rd  that  he  was  unable  to  support  her. 

lJut  a  terrible  wrath  began  to  rise  witl.in  him;  with  it  came  a 
false  kind  of  strength,  and  turning  toward  the  wolf  who  had 
thus  stolen  into  his  household,  he  commanded,  in  a  fearful 
voice; 

"Young  man,  explain  yourself  !" 

"Willingly,  sir;  the  sooner  the  truth  is  out,  the  better  it  will 
snit  me,"  Everet  replied,  haughtily.  "I  have  loved  your  daugh 
ter  for  more  than  three  years.  Twice  I  have  offered  myself  to 


250  THE  WEDDISQ. 

her,  and  twice  been  rejected.  When  I  learned  of  her  engage 
ment  to  the  low-born  boy  whom  you  adopted,  and  whom  I  have 
despised  and  hated  from  the  very  first  of  our  acquaintance,  I 
vowed  it  should  never  be  consummated.  ]  worshiped  her,  and 
I  resolved  that  I  would  win  her  at  any  cost.  I  have  done  HO;  she 
is  mine,  wedded  to  me  this  night,  in  the  presence  of  yourself  and 
hundreds  of  others,  and  I  shall  assert  my  claim  in  spite  of  yon. 
all.  I  hoped,  in  the  excitement  and  confusion,  and  from  my 
close  resemblance  to  Huntress,  that  I  should  escape  discovery 
nntil  our  departure  from  New  York,  If  we  had  not  reached  the 
honse  qnite  so  early — if  the  guests  coald  have  followed  close 
upon  ns  and  kept  Gladys'  attention  from  being  especially  culled 
to  me,  I  think  1  could  have  warded  off  detection  until  we  were 
"well  on  onr  way  to  Boston.  She  seemed  turned  to  stone  when 
she  did  recognize  me,  and  realized  how  she  had  been  duped,  and 
when  I  attempted  to  reason  with  Her  she  swooned." 

For  a  minute  after  Everet  concluded,  Mr.  Huntress  stood  like 
one  dazed  by  some  fearful  fehock,  his  glance  wavering  between 
the  still  unconscious  bride  and  the  man  whose  victim  she  had  be 
come. 

"It  is  a  fraud!"  he  cried  at  last.  "You  have  practiced  a  most 
damnable  fraud  upon  us  all;  but  I  hope  that  von  do  not  imagine 
fora  moment  that  you  can  enforce  your  claim.  The  courts  of 
New  York  will  promptly  annul  the  marriage." 

"Allow  me  to  suggest,  sir,  that  yon  will  first  have  to  prove 
your  point  regarding  fraud,"  Everet  retorted,  with  quiet 
defiance.  "Miss  Huntress  has  been  heard  to  affirm  that  she 
could  distinguish  between  Geoffrey  Dale  and  myself  without 
any  difficulty,  and  yet  she  went  to  the  altar  with  me  and  pledged 
herself  to  me  without  a  demur." 
Mr.  Huntress  groaned. 

"Was  that  strange  clergyman  a  tool  of  yours?"  he  demanded, 
excitedly.  "Was  that  all  a  clever  device  of  yours  al?o?" 

"No.  Strange  as  it  may  seem,  he  was  substituted  just  as  I 
related  to  you,  although  it  proved  a  most  fortunate  circumstance 
for  me;  but  the  telegram  which  called  your  pastor  from  his 
home  was  not  a  bonafide  one.  I  never  should  have  dared  to  face 
him,  who  has  so  long  known  Geoffrey,  for  he  would  have  de 
tected  the  trick  at  once." 

"Scoundrel  !"  said  Mr.  Huntress,  between  his  teeth.  "Where 
is  my  son? — where  is  Geoffrey?" 

"I  cannot  tell  you,  sir.  I  think,  however,  he  has  also  been 
invited  out  of  town — for  a  few  hours,  at  least,"  Everet  returned, 
a  little  smile  of  triumph  curving  his  lips  as  he  became  more 
accustomed  to,  the  situation  and  realized  his  power. 

Mr.  Huntress  caught  it,  and  a  dusky  flush  mounted  to  his 
forehead. 

"L'.j!ive  this  house  instantly!''  lie  commanded,  unabla  to  con 
trol  himself  any  longer  iu.  the  face  of  such  effrontery. 


WHAT  BECAME  OF  GEOFFREY.  251 

"I  could  not  think  of  it,  sir,"  Everefc  quietly  replied,  aud 
composedly  seating  himself  by  a  window.  "My  place  is  beside 
ray  wife,  und  here  i  shall  stay  until  she  shall  be  able  to  accom 
pany  me  elsewhere." 

What  Mr.  Huntress  would  have  done  next  it  is  impossible  to 
Bay,  but  before  he  could  even  reply,  the  door  opened  aud  Doe- 
tor  Hoyt  entered. 

"Wliut  am  I  wanted  for?  Bless  me!  what  does  this  mean?"  he 
exclaimed,  glancing  about  him  with  undisguised  astonishment, 
and  perceiving  the  condition  of  the  newly  made  bride. 

"Gladys  was  taken  ill  immediately  upon  returning  from  the 
church,"  Mr.  Huntress  hastened  to  explain,  suddenly  bethinking 
himself  that  it  would  be  wise  to  avoid  a  scandal,  at  least  until  he 
could  take  legal  advice  and  see  what  hope  there  was  of  a  release 
for  Gladys  from  the  hateful  bonds  that  bound  her. 

"Ah.  yes — a  protracted  swoon,  caused  by  excitement  or  some 
sudden  shock,"  said  the  energetic  little  doctor,  with  a  pro 
fessional  air,  as  he  took  one  of  the  limp,  white  hands  that  lay  oa 
Gladys'  still  breast,  and  felt  for  the  pulse. 

He  could  not  tind  any,  nor  was  there  any  movement  about  the 
heart,  and  he  begau  to  look  very  grave. 

"She  must  be  put  to  bed  immediately,  and  there  must  be  per 
fect  quiet  throughout  the  house,"  he  said.  "Huntress,  you 
must  explain  this  to  your  guests,  and  get  them  away  as  soon  as 
possible.  It  is  unfortunate,  but  I  won't  answer  for  the  conse 
quences  if  there  is  any  confusion  when  she  comes  to  herself. 
Here  madame,"  to  Mrs.  Huntress,  "get  this  finery  off  her  head 
aud  loosen  her  corsage,  and  you,  sir,"  to  Everet,  whom  he  sup 
posed  to  be  Geoffrey,  "unlacn  those  pretty  number  twos,  and 
give  the  blood  a  c!i;iuoe  to  circulate  in  her  feet." 

His  coming  seemed  to  put  life  and  confidence  into  the  nearly 
distracted  parents. 

Mr.  Huntress  tiruced  himself  to  encounter  the  crowd  of  won 
dering  people  in  the  drawing-room,  and,  going  out,  explained 
as  bri«»flly  us  possible  the  sudden  illness  of  the  bride,  and  the 
sympathetic  guests,  with  a  few  well-bred  expressions  of  regret, 
immediately  dispersed,  and  in  less  than  fifteen  minutes  the 
mansion  was  cleared  and  the  stricken  household  left  to  itself, 
while  not  a  suspicion  of  the  fearful  truth  had  got  abroad. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

WHAT   BECAME    OP    GEOFFBBY. 

Gladys  lav  so  long  in  her  swoon  that,  not  only  her  friends  but 
the  physician  also  became  greatly  alarmed  lest  she  should 
never  rally;  the  shock  which  had  caused  this  suspension  of 
animation  might  end  in  death. 


852  WHAT  BECAME  OF  GEOFFREY. 

Ereret  Mapleson,  too,  as  he  sat  alone  in  that  small  room 
back  of  the  drawing-room,  waa  in  a  very  unenviable  I'lvaue  of 
mind.  He  knew  tliat  if  Gladys  should  die  her  death  would  lie 
at  his  door;  he  would  really  have  been  her  murderer,  and  such  a 
disastrous  result  of  his  reckless  plot  he  had  never  contem 
plated. 

He  had  fondly  hoped,  as  he  toltl  Mr.  Huntress,  that,  in  the 
excitement  and  gayety  of  the  evening,  surrounded  by  friends 
and  receiving  their  cougiatnlntiona,  ho  could  easily  play  Geof 
frey's  part,  and  she  would  not  detect  the  imposition  until  tiiey 
should  start  off  alone  upon  their  wedding  journey.  He  had 
practiced  many  little  mannerisms  that  were  peculiar  to  Geoffrey, 
changing  l»is  voice,  as  far  as  ha  could,  to  imitate  his,  and  had 
not  reckoned  upon  the  keenness  of  love  to  discover  the  iraud  so 
readily. 

He  had  expected  that  Glady's  would  be  very  unreconciled  and 
unreasonable  at  first,  but  he  had  hoped,  when  she  realized 
that  there  was  uo  help  for  the  deed,  she  might  resign  herself  to 
the  inevitable,  and  that  he  would  gradually  win  tier  love  by  the 
influence  of  his  own  for  her  and  his  devotion  to  her.  He  had  been 
wholly  unprepared,  however,  for  the  exceeding  honor  and  loath 
ing  which  she  had  evinced  upon  discovering  him,  and  she  had 
thoroughly  frightened  him  by  her  rigid  despair  and  the  terrible 
lethargy  which  had  followed  it. 

When  they  bore  her  away  to  her  room  he  fain  would  have  fal 
lowed,  his  anxiety  was  so  great  upon  her  account;  but  as  he  es 
sayed  to  do  so,  Mr.  Huntress  turned  upon  him  in  sudden  fury. 

"Stay  where  you  ar^!"  he  commanded,  "or,  what  would  be 
better  still,  .leave  the  house  altogether." 

"I  shall  not  leave  the  house,  sir,"  the  young  man  answered, 
doggedly,  and  he  resumed  his  seat,  resolved  to  brave  it  out  to 
the  end,  though  a  sickening  fear  was  creeping  over  him  that  the 
end  might  be  such  as  would  make  him  wish  he  Lad  never  been 
born. 

So  the  poor  little  bride  was  borne  from  his  sight,  her  bridal 
robes  were  removed,  and  everything  done  for  her  recovery  that 
love  could  do  or  professional  skill  could  suggest. 

Strange  though  it  may  seem,  no  one,  save  the  physician,  sus 
pected  the  cause  of  this  sudden  attack. 

Mr.  Huntress  had  confided  the  circumstances  attending  it  to 
Doctor  Hoyt,  because  he  felt  that  he  ought  to  be  informed  in 
order  that  lie  might  work  understanding!^',  but  not  even  a  ser 
vant  dreamed  that  thtir  beautiful  young  mistress  had  been  mar 
ried  to  the  wrong  man. 

•'August,  I  am  nearly  wild  about  Geoffrey,  as  well  as  Gladys," 
Mrs.  Huntress  said,  to  her  husband,  as  together  they  bent  over 
the  unconscious  girl,  anxiously  watching  for  some  sign  of  re 
turning  life.  "Do  you  believe  that  wretch  would  dare  to  hana 
him?" 


'WHAT  BECAME  OF  GEOFFREY.  253 

"No,  indeed,  dear.  I  feel  sure  that  oar  Geoff  is  safe  enough. 
I  judge,  from  the  fellow's  words,  that  he  has  been  decoyed  to 
some  place,  where  he  was  to  be  detained  uijtil  the  wedding  was 
•well  over,  and  Maplesou  well  on  the  way  to  Boston  with  Gladys. 
Heavens!  wliat  an  escape  for  the  dear  chiiii!"  he  concluded, 
growing  white  over  the  contemplation  of  the  young  girl's  sa •''.  fata 
if  Everet  had  succeeded  in  keeping  up  the  deception  until  after 
the  steamer  had  sailed. 

"But  is  it  an  escape?"  Mrs.  Huntress  whispered,  with  quiver 
ing  lips.  "Can  the  marriage  be  annulled?" 

"Certainly,  Alice,"  her  husband  emphatically  replied,  "be 
cause  we  can  prove  the  man  a  scoundrel  and  an  impostor." 

"It  will  make  a  terrible  scandal,"  sighed  his  wife. 

"Better  that  than  that  our  dear  one  should  be  doomed  to  a  life 
of  misery.  I  will  spend  my  last  dollar  to  give  her  back  her  free 
dom  and  punish  that  audacious  wretch,"  said  Mr.  Huntress,  with 
firmly  compressed  lips.  "Poor  Geoff !''  he  added,  after  a  pit  use, 
"I  wonder  where  he  can  be;  he  must  be  in  a  terrible  state  of 
mind,  wherever  he  is,"  concluded  Mr,  Huntress,  with  a  weary 
sigli. 

But  they  could  not  think  of  much  save  Gladys,  while  she  lay 
in  such  a  critical  condition,  and  they  hung  over  her  with  white 
faces  and  sinking  hearts,  while  they  anxiously  watched  the  phy- 
siciiin's  every  look  and  movement. 

After  what,  to  them,  seemed  an  eternity  of  time,  a  faint  sign  of 
life  began  to  show  itself;  the  heart  slowly  resumed  its  motion, 
the  pulse  gave  forth  a  feeble  throb,  a  faint  tinge  of  color  flickered 
in  the  drawn  lips,  aud  the  che.st  began  to  heave  with  the  renewed 
action  of  the  lungs. 

"She  will  weather  it,"  Doctor  Hoyt  said,  under  his  breath,  but 
in  his  brisk,  decisive  way,  which  instantly  carried  conviction  aud 
comfort  to  those  parents'  fond  hearts. 

But  when  she  did  come  fully  to  herself,  aud  looked  up  into 
those  earnest  faces  above  her,  when  reason  and  memory  reasserted 
themselves,  thut  tame  look  of  horror  came  into  her  eyes,  that 
rigid  settling  of  her  features  returned,  aud  were  followed  by  an 
other  swoon,  although  not  so  frightful  or  prolonged  us  the  first 
one  had  been. 

It  wi.s  ten  o'clock  before  the  physician  succeeded  in  arresting 
the  tendency  to  fainting,  aud  she  came  fully  to  herself. 

"Geoffrey!"  she  moaned,  as  soon  as  she  could  sneak,  and  look 
ing  around  for  the  dear  face,  while  a  shudder  shook  her  from 
head  to  foot. 

Doctor  Hoyt  shot  a  warning  look  at  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Huntress; 
then  said,  in  a  reassuring  tone: 

"He  is  all  right,  and  shall  come  to  yon  when  you  are  rather 
more  like  yourself.     Now,  drink  this  for  the  sake  of  getting  a 
little  strength." 
Ho  put  a  glass  to  her  lips,  and  she  drank  mechanically. 


254  WHAT  BECAME  OF  GEOFFREY. 

Then,  pushing  his  hand  away,  she  struggled  to  a  half-sitting 
posture,  and  looked  fearfully  about  the  room. 

As  her  glance  fell  upon  hei  wedding  finery,  which  had  been 
hastily  thrown  upon  some  chairs,  she  was  seized  with  another 
violent  shivering,  and  fell  back  among  her  pillows,  covering  her 
eyes  with  her  hands,  as  if  to  shut  out  from  sight  and  memory 
the  fearful  ordeal  through  which  she  had  passed  a  few  hours  pre 
vious. 

But  the  potion  which  the  physician  had  administered  was  a 
powerful  narcotic,  which  began  almost  immediately  to  take 
effect,  and  sleep  soon  locked  her  senses  in  oblivion. 

Hardly  had  she  begun  to  breathe  regularly,  and  the  weary 
watchers  about  her  bel  to  hope  that  the  worst  was  over,  when 
the  great  clock  in  the  hall  bslo-.v  struck  the  hour  of  midnight. 

At  the  last  stroke  the  door  of  the  sick-room  swung  softly  open, 
and  Geoffrey's  face,  pale,  haggard,  and  anxious,  appeared  in  tha 
aperture. 

It  required  a  mighty  effort  on  the  part  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hunt 
ress  to  refrain  from  uttering  an  exclamation  of  joy  at  sight  of 
him. 

But  the  doctor  held  up  a  warning  finger.  Mrs.  Huntress,  who 
had  half  started  from  her  chair,  sank  back  to  her  post  beside 
Gladys'  pillow,  while  her  husband,  with  a  look  of  intense  relief, 
stole  quietly  from  the  rcom. 

We  must  now  go  back  to  the  hour  when  the  wedding  party 
started  from  the  house  for  the  church. 

Geoffrey,  as  has  been  stated,  left  a  little  in  advance  of  the  oth 
ers,  as  he  desired  a  few  moments'  interview  with  the  clergyman 
before  the  ceremony. 

Not  a  thought  of  foul  play  entered  his  mind  as  he  drove  away, 
neither  had  he  a  suspicion  that  a  different  carriage  had  been 
substituted  for  the  one  he  had  ordered,  that  having  been  sud- 
deuly  and  cunningly  sent  off  to  the  station  for  an  imaginary  ar 
rival  on  the  evening  express. 

He  was  so  absorbed  in  his  own  thoughts  that  he  did  not  even 
observe  the  route  the  driver  was  taking,  until  he  suddenly  no 
ticed  that  the  speed  of  the  horses  had  greatly  increased  and  he 
was  rolling  along  at  a  remarkable  rate  through  quiet  and  almost 
deserted  streets. 

It  was  quite  dark,  but  the  street-lamps  gave  light  enough  to 
show  him  that  he  was  a  long  distance  from  the  place  where  he 
wanted  to  go. 

He  tried  to  lower  the  window  beside  him. 

It  was  immovable. 

He  tried  the  other,  but  it  was  as  fast  as  the  first  one. 

He  tlmmped  on  the  front  of  the  carriage,  to  attract  the  atten 
tion  of  the  driver;  but  a  crack  of  the  whip  was  his  only  answer. 

He  shouted,  commanding  the  man  to  stop,  but  the  horses 
only  went  on  the  faster. 


WHAT  BECAME  OF  GEOFFREY.  -  '> 

Driven  to  desperation,  Geoffrey  drew  back,  and,  with  o.ia 
powerful  blow  from  his  foot,  shivered  one  of  the  windows  to 
atoms. 

At  the  sound  of  the  breaking  glass,  the  coachman  slackened 
the  speed  of  his  steeds. 

''Driver,  where  are  you  taking  mo?"  Geoffrey  shouted, 
thrusting  his  head  from  the  window.  "I  want  to  go  to  Plym 
outh  Chnrch." 

"Oil!  Plymouth?"  replied  the  man,  in  a  tone  of  innocent  aston 
ishment,  as  if  he  had  l»een  bound  for  some  other  church,  and 
was  surprised  to  lenru  that  he  had  made  a  mistake. 

Geoffrey  was  unsuspicious  enough  to  believe  this,  yet  he  was 
very  much  annoyed. 

He  desired  to  seo  the  clergyman  l>efore  the  ceremony,  and  ha 
knew  it  was  already  past  the  hour  set  for  his  marriage. 

"You  have  no  time  to  lose,"  he  shouted  again  to  the  driver. 
"I  fear  you  have  made  me  late,  as  it  is;  got  rue  thero  as  quickly 
as  you  can." 

"All  right,  sir,"  came  back  the  answer,  while  the  carriage 
suddenly  turned  a  corner,  and  the  man  whipped  the  horses  to  a 
run. 

Geoffrey  had  no  overcoat  with  him;  he  thought  he  should  not 
need  it,  the  day  had  been  so  mild,  and  he  would  l»e  shut  into  a 
close  carriage;  Imt  now  the  chill  night  air  came  in  through  the 
broken  window,  and  he  began  to  suffer  with  the  cold. 

On  and  on  the  carriage  went,  faster  and  faster  the  horses  flew, 
until  suddenly  Geoffrey  discovered,  to  his  dismay,  that  he  was 
rolling  over  an  open  country  road,  while  the  lights  of  the  city 
were  gleaming  far  behind. 

Again  ho  leaned  forth  and  shouted  to  the  driver  to  stop;  that 
he  was  \vrong. 

But  this  time  there  came  no  answer,  save  the  whiz  and  crack 
of  the  lash,  and  th«  sound  of  tho  horses'  hoofs  upon  the  road. 

Ho  began  to  f(>:u-  that  the  man  was  intoxicated. 

He  culled,  he  commanded,  he  threatened ;  all  to  no  purpose, 
except  to  in  ike  the  driver  nrge  his  hordes  to  go  faster  and 
faster. 

They  were  far  out  in  the  suburbs  now,  with  the  houses  few 
and  far  between,  and  Geoffrey  was  nesirlv  in  despair. 

What  would  the  wedding  party  think,  upon  rerchin!*  the 
church,  to  find  no  1  -ride-groom  there?  What  would  Gladys 
think?  What  would  those  hundreds  of  guests  HIIV  when  they 
should  discover  there  could  be  no  wedding?  What  would  be 
the  end  of  this  dreadful  adventure? 

Could  it  l>e  possible  MI.U.  the  man  who  was  driving  was  some 
ins- me  creutnre,  carrjijg  him  to  destruction? 

F.vt-ry  possible  explanation,  save  the  right  one.  flashed  through 
his  mind  as  he  sat  there,  utterly  powc  rietss  to  help  himself,  yet 
almost  crazed  with  auxi<-ty  and  snsponse. 


256  WHAT  BECAME  Of  GEOFFREY. 

He  shouted  himself  hoarse,  without  eliciting  the  slightest  re 
sponse  or  attention. 

He  leaned  as  far  out  of  the  carriage  as  he  -was  able,  to  look  at 
the  man  on  the  box,  but  could  only  dimly  distinguish  a  figure 
muffled  to  tlie  ears  in  a  huge  ulster,  but  as  motionless  as  a 
statue,  except  for  that  periodical  swing  of  his  right  arm  iu 
wielding  the  whip. 

Geoffrey  dared  not  leap  out,  even  though  in  his  desperation 
he  was  strongly  tempted  to  do  so;  he  realized  that  such  a 
hazardous  proceeding  might  result  in  instant  death,  while  there 
•was  no  way  by  which  he  could  climb  to  the  top  of  the  car 
riage  to  reach  the  driver;  there  was  nothing  that  he  could  do 
but  submit  to  the  inevitable,  and  await  further  developments. 

So,  wearied  out  and  thoroughly  chilled  by  the  keen  night  air, 
he  first  stuffed  one  of  the  cushions  into  the  broken  window, 
then  sank  back  into  a  corner,  and  surrendered  himself  to  hia 
fate. 

For  three  long  hours  he  sat  there  and  was  driven  at  a  rapid 
pace,  knowing  not  whither  he  was  going. 

At  last,  to  his  infinite  relief,  the  carriage  stopped. 

Taking  instant  advantage  of  this  circumstance,  Geoffrey  leaped 
to  the  ground,  and  turning  furiously  to  the  driver,  he  demanded 
what  he  meant  by  bringing  him  there. 

The  man  might  have  been  a  deaf  mute  for  all  the  notice  lie 
took  of  either  the  young  man's  question  or  passion. 

He  neither  spoke  nor  moved,  except  to  quickly  turn  his  horses 
about  and  drive  rapidly  back  in  the  direction  from  which  he 
had  come,  leaving  his  victim  standing  in  the  middle  of  a  lonely 
road  with  not  a  house  in  sight. 

For  a  moment  Geoffrey  was  so  bewildered  that  he  did  not  know 
what  to  do;  he  had  not  the  slightest  idea  whera  he  was,  only  he 
was  sure  that  he  must  be  miles  and  miles  from  Brooklyn. 

But  his  insufficient  clothing  but  illy  protected  him  from  the 
cold,  and  he  soou  began  to  realize  that  he  could  not  stand  there 
long  without  great  danger  to  himself. 

He  began  to  walk  rapidly,  and  soon  found  himself  ascending 
a  hill,  and  upon  reaching  the  top  lie  saw,  beneath  him,  the 
lights  of  a  small  village  gleaming  through  the  darkness. 

Quickening  his  steps  he  reached  it  after  ten  or  fifteen  minutes, 
and,  to  his  joy,  discovered  that  a  line  of  railway  passed  through 
it. 

Following  this  he  soon  came  to  the  station,  where  he  found  a 
sleepy-looking  ajjent  and  telegraph  operator,  who  regarded  him 
and  his  immaculate  dress  suit  with  undisguised  astonishment. 

He  inquired  when  the  next  train  went  to  Brooklyn,  and  to  his 
dismay  learned  that  this  was  only  a  branch  road,  and  that  no 
train  was  due  there  for  an  hour.  It  was  small  comfort,  too,  to 
be  told  that  it  would  bo  ouly  a  freight  train  with  a  passenger 
ear  attached — that  it  would  stop  at  every  station  where  there 


WHAT  BECAME  OF  OEOFFRET.  257 

was  freight  to  be  delivered  or  taken  up;  that  it  would  be  a  full 
hour  reaching  the  main  line,  where  be  would  have  to  wait 
another  hour  for  a  train  to  Brooklyn. 

AH  this  delay  he  knew  would  prevent  him  from  reaching  home 
before  midnight,  and  then  there  flashed  upon  him,  for  the  first 
time,  a  suspicion  that  lie  had  been  brought  to  that  remote  place 
by  no  intoxicated  driver's  freak,  neither  had  he  been  the  victim 
of  i  maniac's  frenzy,  but  that  his  abduction  had  been  deliber 
ately  and  cunningly  planned  to  prevent  his  appearance  at  his 
own  wedding — to  hinder,  if  possible,  his  marriage  with  Gladys. 

Bat  who  could  have  perpetrated  such  a  dastardly  act,  and 
•what  could  hnve  been  the  ultimate  object?  It  did  occur  to  him 
that  Everet  Mapleson  might  have  had  something  to  do  with  it, 
but  he  quickly  abandoned  that  idea  for.  much  as  he  distrusted 
aud  disliked  him,  on  many  accounts,  he  could  not  think  any 
thing  so  bad  as  this  of  him — little  dreaming  liow  much  worse 
Le  had  done — while,  too,  he  believed  he  had  left  the  city  moro 
than  a  week  previous. 

He  was  very  cold,  and  he  knew  he  could  not  be  three  hours 
more  on  the  road  without  a  coat  or  wrap  of  some  kind  to  protect 
him;  but  how  to  procure  it  was  a  question  he  could  not  solve, 
for  the  station-master  told  him  there  was  not  a  clothing  store  in, 
the  nlace. 

While  he  was  hovering  over  the  fire  in  the  ladies'  waiting, 
room,  shivering  with  the  cold,  and  feeling  inconceivably  wi'etch- 
ed,  a  tall,  portly  woman  entered,  bearing  a  large  gripsack  in 
one  hand,  a  heavy  shawl  and  waterproof  in  the  other. 

She  wore  a  long  circular  of  some  rough  cloth,  which  com 
pletely  covered  her  from  her  neck  to  her  heels,  a  knitted  hood 
upon  her  head,  a  pair  of  brown  woolen  mittens  on  her  hands, 
and  looked  so  warm  and  comfortable  that  Geoffery  shivered 
afresh. 

His  eyes  fastened  themselves  instantly  and  enviouslj  upon  th« 
shawl  she  carried. 

A  bright  idea  struck  him,  and,  addressing  her  courteously,  he 
asked  her  if  she  would  sell  it  to  him,  explaining  briefly  that  he 
tad  been  on  his  way  to  a  wedding  in  a  close  carriage,  when 
accident  threw  him  unprotected  out  into  the  cold. 

"I  will  give  you  twenty  dollars  for  that  shawl,  madame,"  he 
said,  knowing  well,  however,  that  it  was  not  really  worth  half 
that  sum. 

But  she  i-efused  his  offer — the  shawl  had  belonged  to  a  sister 
•who  had  but  just  died,  and  she  could  not  part  with  it;  however, 
she  would  sell  him  the  circular  she  had  on,  she  said,  for  half 
what  he  had  offered  for  the  other  wrap,  and  wear  that  herself. 

Tins  proposal  pleased  him  even  better  than  his  own,  for  he 
would  lie  f;n  less  conspicuous  in  the  dark  circular,  and  he  never 
had  felt  better  over  a  bargain,  or  experienced  a  greater  sense  of 
personal  comfort,  than  when  lie  gave  up  his  ten  dollars  aud 


258  AN  ACCIDENT  REVEALS  AN  HEIE-LOOM. 

•wrapped  himself  in  the  shabby  garment,  just  as  the  lazy  traiu 
came  puffing  up  to  the  station. 

He  found  a  seat  near  the  stove,  and  strove  to  possess  his  soul 
in  patience  nntil  he  should  reach  the  main  line.  The  waiting 
at  the  junction,  however,  was  even  a  greater  tax  upon  his  nerves, 
but  it  was  over  at  last,  and,  boarding  the  Brooklyn  traiu  the 
moment  it  stopped,  lie  was  soon  rolling  rapidly  toward  home. 

He  reached  Brooklyn  only  a  little  before  midnight,  called  a 
carriage  and  arrived  before  his  own  door  five  minutes  before 
the  hour  struck.  He  let  himself  quietly  in  with  his  latch-key, 
and,  fearing  he  hardly  knew  what,  stole  up  to  Gladys'  room, 
where  he  had  observed  a  light,  and  seen  shadows  ou  the  cur 
tains  befoi'e  entering  the  house. 


CHAPTER  XL. 

AN   ACCIDENT   REVEALS   AN   HEIB-LOOM. 

"!V?y  dear  boy !"  cried  Mr.  Huntress,  under  his  breath,  as  he 

stepped  out  into  the  hall  beside  Geoffrey,  cautiously  closing  the 

door  after  him,  and  then  seizing  him  warmly    by    both    hands, 

"where  on  earth  have  you    been,  and    what   has   happened    to 

-•you?" 

'•The  most  mysterious  and  villainous  thing  that  could  hap 
pen,"  replied  Geoffrey,  witn  a  gloom}'  face.  "I  have  been  kid 
nap— ed  carried  miles  and  miles  away — and  it  has  taken  me 
Lours  to  retrim. " 

"I  suspected  as  much,"  said  Mr.  Huntress,  sternly. 

"Thou  you  haven't  attributed  nay  absence  to  any  fault  of 
mine.  Uncle  August?" 

"No.  indeed,  my  boy.     I  knew  better." 

"What  made  you  suspect  foul  play?  But  first  tell  me  about 
Gladys.  How  has  she  borne  it?"  Geoffrey  asked,  with  a  wistful 
glance  at  tho  door  beyond  which  his  darling  lay. 

Mr.  Huntress  shot  an  anxious  look  at  him. 

Clearly  he  had  no  suspicion  of  what  had  occurred  during  hia 
absence. 

"Gladys  has  suffered  a  great  deal  mentally,  but  she  is  sleeping 
now,"  he  said,  gravely,  and  wondering  how  he  could  ever  tell 
him  the  terrible  truth, 

"It  must  have  been  dreadful.  I  can  imagine  the  consterna 
tion  of  everybody  when  they  discovered  there  would  be  no  •wed 
ding,"  said  Geoffrey,  excitedly,  while  he  began  to  pace  rest 
lessly  up  and  down  the  corridor.  "How  awkward! — how 
•wretched  for  my  darling! — how  uncomfortable  for  you  and 
Aunt  Alice!  How  did  you  manage?  What  could  you  do  or 
say?" 

"Come  with  me,  Geoff,  where  we  cau  talk  without  fear  of  dis- 


AN  ACCIDENT  REVEALS  AN  HEIR-LOOM.  259 

turbing  Gladys,  and  I  will  tell  you.  I  have  something  very 
strange  to  toll  you,  too,"  said  Mr.  Huntress,  linking  his  arm 
within  that  of  the  young  man  and  leading  him  to  an  alcove  over 
the  front  entrance. 

"Something  strange,"  Geoffrey  repeated,  in  a  startled  tone. 

"Very.  There  has  been  a  most  villainous  plot  connected  with 
this  affair." 

From  Mr.  Huntress'  manner,  Geoffrey  saw  that  something 
of  a  very  grave  nature  had  occurred. 

"What  is  it?"  he  demanded.  "Tell  me  at  once;  I  can  boar 
anything  better  than  suspense. 

"Geoff,  there  was  a  wedding!" 

"Uncle  August!" 

"But  no  one  save  ourselves  and  our  good  doctor,  as  yet,  sus 
pects  that  there  was  anything  wrong  about  it." 

"Are  you  crazy?  What  do  you  mean?"  cried  the  young  man, 
breathlessly.  "A  wedding?  That  could  not  be.  Gladys  could 
not  have  been  the  bride." 

"Gladys  wets  the  bride,  and  every  guest  believes  that  you 
were  the  groom." 

Geoffrey  sank  upon  a  chair,  his  strength  all  gone,  while  a  din* 
suspicion  of  the  horrible  truth  began  to  take  form  in  his  mind. 

"What  can  you  mean?"  he  gasped,  hardly  above  a  whisper,  a 
deadly  pallor  on  his  face,  an  agonized  look  in  his  eyes. 

"Be  calm,  my  boy,"  said  his  uncle,  laying  his  hand  affection 
ately  upon  his  shoulder.  "A  dreadful  thing  has  occurred,  but 
it  was  all  a  farce — a  fraud,  rather — which  the  law  will  set  right 
in  time,  and  Gladys  may  yet  be  yours " 

"Heavens!  Uncle  August,  you  are  driving  me  mad!  Explain! 
explain!  I  cannot  bear  these  enigmas!''  cried  the  poor  fellow, 
springing  to  his  feet  in  a  fearful  state  of  agitation,  whilo  a  cold 
perspiration  started  out  all  over  his  face. 

Mr.  Huntress  gently  forced  him  back  into  his  chair  and  be 
gan  at  once  to  tell  him  all  that  had  occurred,  from  the  moment 
of  the  departure  of  the  bridal  party  from  the  church,  up  to  tha 
present  hour. 

Geoffrey  sat  throughout  the  fearful  recital  as  if  he  had  sud 
denly  been  turned  to  stone,  and  when  at  last  it  was  concluded, 
there  were  several  moments  of  dreadful  silence.  He  seemed 
paralyzed,  mentally  and  physically,  by  the  blighting  affliction 
which  had  overtaken  him,  and  by  the  bold  daring  of  the  enemy 
who  had  thus  ruined  his  dearest  hopes. 

Agony,  however,  at  last  broke  the  spell. 

He  arose,  and  stood  pale  and  stern  before  his  uncle. 

"Where  is  ho?"  he  demanded,  in  an  awful  voice,  although  it 
was  barely  audible,  "where  is  that  treacherous  villain  who  has 
robbed  mn  of  my  wife  and  broken  her  heart?  Tell  me,  for  there 
must  be  a  terrible  settlement  between  him  arid,  me.  Where  ia 
Everet  Mapleson,  Uncle  August?" 


260  AN  ACCIDENT  REVEALS  AN  HEIR-LOOM. 

"Here!*'  responded  a  defiant  voice  close  beside  them,  and, 
•wheeling  suddenly  about  at  the  sound,  Geoffrey  saw  his.  rival 
standing  between  the  parted  draperies  that  separated  the  alcove 
fioni  the  main  hall. 

"I  am  here  to  answer  for  myself,"  he  continued,  iu  the  same 
tone,  while  he  looked  as  pule  and  resolute  as  Geoffrey  himself, 
"but  first  I  demand  tidings  of  my — wife." 

That  word  was  like  a  blow  to  Geoffrey,  who  staggered  back 
•with  a  groan  of  anguish. 

But,  he  quickly  rallied. 

"She  is  not  your  wife!"  he  said,  fiercely;  "a  farce — an  act  of 
fraud,  could  never  make  her  such." 

"You  are  a  trifle  premature  in  your  statement,"  retorted  young 
Mapleson,  with  a  sneer.  "I  do  not  deny  that  my  purpose  was 
accomplished  by  something  of  strategy,  but  it  was  accomplished, 
notwithstanding — Gladys  Huntress  was  married  to  me  to-night, 
and  it  is  simply  useless  to  contest  the  fact." 

"You  may  have  gone  through  the  marriage  service  wita  her; 
but  you  personated  me,  and  it  was  only  a  monk  ceremony.  Be 
sides,  there  were  certain  preliminaries  to  be  attended  to — your 
intentions  made  known — your  certificate  to  be  properly  filled; 
•without  these  there  could  have  been  no  legal  marriage,"  Geof 
frey  returned,  sternly. 

Everot  Mapleson  smiled  snperciliously. 

"All  that  you  mention  was  most  carefully  attended  to,  sir," 
ho  said,  with  an  air  of  triumph  that  was  simply  maddening  to 
his  listeners.  "The  clergyman  was  duly  apprised  of  my  inten 
tions,  and  received  a  handsome  fee,  fifteen  minutes  before  the 
arrival  of  the  bridal  party  at  the  church;  the  ring  had  been 
purchased  and  carefully  marked  and  now  adorns  the  hand  of 
the  bride.  Not  a  single  detail  has  been  omitted,  I  assure  you, 
to  make  my  position  and  my  claim  secure." 

"Bah!  your  audacity  is  astounding!"  said  Geoffrey,  contempt 
uously.  "It  was  a  barefaced  fraud,  and  the  marriage  will  never 
stand  in  law,"  persisted  Geoffrey,  firmly,  but.  oh!  with  such  a 
sinking  agony  in  his  heart. 

"Prove  it  if  you  can,"  retorted  Mapleson,  arrogantly.  "You 
•will  not  find  it  an  easy  thing  to  do,  however,  for  I  shall  make  a 
desperate  fight  to  thwart  you." 

"Wretch!  how  dare  you  attempt  such  a  diabolical  plot?"  Mr. 
Huntress  demanded. 

"I  was  desperate  enough  to  dare  anything,  sir,"  Everet  re 
plied,  addressing  him  with  more  respect  thru  he  had  yet  shown. 
"With  the  love  I  bear  your  daughter  I  could  not  brook  defeat. 
I  vowed  that  1  would  win  her  at  any  cost,  and  but  for  my  own 
indiscretion  all  this  fuss  might  have  been  avoided.  I  was  so 
elated  by  my  success  in  having  the  marriage  performed  that  I 
could  not  resist  taking  advantage  of  my  position,  and,  in  at 
tempting  to  salute  my  bride  after  our  return  to  the  house,  she 


AN  ACCIDENT  REVEALS  AN  HEIR-LOOM.  261 

recognized  me.  If  I  had  done  nothing  to  attract  her  especial 
attention  to  me,  the  next  two  hours  might  have  been  tided  over 
well  enough,  and,  once  on  the  way  to  Boston,  en  route  for 
Europe,  I  could  have  laughed  at  any  outside  interference." 

Geoffrey  shivered.  It  w:is  dreadful  to  have  to  listen  tu  these 
revelations,  and  to  realize  what  a  narrow  escape  Gladys  had  had, 
for  he  knew  that  :f  Everet  Maplesou  had  succeeded  in  deceiving 
ber  until  the  steamer  sailed,  the  shock  of  her  discovery,  \vheu 
alone,  ami  in  the  power  of  the  audacious  scoundrel,  might  have 
resulted  in  her  death.  Even  now  they  might  not  be  able  to 
secure  her  release,  and  she  would  still  have  to  remain  his  wife 
in  the  sight  of  the  world,  but  no  moral  obligation  bound  her  to 
him.  anb  no  power  could  ever  compel  her  to  live  with  him. 

"Could  you  ever  hope  to  gain  any  satisfaction  iu  the  uresenee 
of  a  wife  who  would  loathe  the  very  sight  of  you,  and  whom  you 
knew  would  never  cease  to  love  another?"  Mr.  Huntress  de 
manded,  with  curling  lips. 

"  'Love  begets  love,'  yon  know,  and  I  imagine  it  would  not 
have  been  such  a  hopeless  task,  after  all,  to  win  the  heart  of  my 
wife,  with  such  devotion  as  1  have  to  offer  her,"  Everet  Maple- 
son  flippantly  replied. 

Geoffrey's  blood  boiled  as  ranch  at  his  confident,  arrogant 
tone,  as  at  his  words,  and  almost  before  he  had  concluded,  he 
walked  straight  up  to  him,  seized  him  by  the  coat  collar, 
wheeled  him  about,  and  marching  him  to  the  head  of  the  stairs, 
pointed  below  and  said,  iu  a  stem,  authortative  tone,  as  he  re 
leased  his  hold  of  him: 

"GV" 

The  young  man  was  so  taken  aback  by  this  snmmary  act,  that 
he  did  not  even  offer  to  resist  tmtil  he  reached  the  top  stair, 
wh«n  he  put  out  his  hand  and  seized  the  railing. 

He  turned,  with  blazing  eyes,  and  faced  Geoffrey,  but  the  ex 
pression  which  he  saw  upon  his  face  warned  him  that  he  had  no 
irresolute  spirit  to  deal  with. 

"Go!"  reiterated  Geoffrey,  inflexibly,  "or  I  may  be  tempted 
beyond  my  strength  and  forget  one  of  the  'thou  shalt  nots.'  " 

•'/  will  not!"  he  returned,  as  resolutely,  all  his  antagonism 
aroused.  "Do  you  imagine  that,  after  having  struggled  so  des 
perately  to  attain  the  dearest  hopes  of  uay  life,  I  will  fly  like  a 
coward  in  the  vory  hour  of  their  achievement?" 

But  even  while  he  spoke,  with  all  the  bravado  of  which  he 
was  master,  he  shifted  uneasily  before  the  terrible  look  in 
Geoffrey  Huntress'  eye. 

Yet  it  aroused  all  the  passion  in  his  nature;  \,he  hot  blood 
mounted  to  his  brow,  coursing  in  an  angry  tide  through  all  his 
veins,  and  before  either  of  Ins  companions  could  suspect,  his 
intention,  he  swung  aloft  his  right  arm  to  smite  his  rival  to  the 
floor. 

But  the  blow  never  descended.     la  his   hot-headed  anger  ho 


262  AN    iCCWEST  REVEALS  AN  HEIR-LOOM. 

forgot  the  danger  of  his  position,  made  a  misstep,  lost  his  bal 
ance,  and  fell  headlong  down  the  long  flight  of  stairs,  and  then 
lay  silent  and  motionless,  while  those  two  men  above  looked 
down  upon  him  with  white,  startled  faces,  and  hearts  throbbing 
heavily  with  a  sickening  fear. 

The  stairs  were  carpeted  and  thickly  padded,  so  that  his  fall 
bad  not  been  a  very  noisy  one;  yet  the  disturbance  was  suffi 
cient  to  bring  both  Mrs.  Huntress  and  the  physiciau  forth  from 
Gladys'  room,  ill  a  state  of  alarm  and  consternation. 

"What  is  it?  Oh,  August,  what  has  happened?"  cried  Mrs. 
Huntress  digging  to  her  husband. 

"Tkat  villain  played  the  spy  upon  us,  and  in  attempting  to 
Btnke  Geoffrey,  lost  his  balance  and  fell,"  Mr.  Huntress  ex 
plained,  adding,  anxiously:  "But  pray  go  back  and  stay  with 
Gladys;  let  her  know  nothing  of  this,  eve  i  if  she  wakes,  and  we 
•will  take  care  of  this  fellow." 

He  led  her  back  to  the  young  girl's  room,  and  was  greatly 
relieved  to  see  that  she  was  still  sleeping  heavily,  and  had  not 
been  conscious  of  the  confusion  outside. 

The  doctor  and  Geoffrey,  meanwhile,  had  sprung  down  the 
stairs,  lifted  the  prostrate  man,  and  carried  him  into  one  of  the 
rooms  below. 

A  careful  examination  convinced  Doctor  Hoyt  that  there  were 
no  bones  broken,  the  thickly  carpeted  and  padded  stairs  had 
doubtless  been  his  salvation  in  this  respect;  if  he  had  suffered 
no  internal  injury,  he  had  surely  escaped  in  a  wonderful  man 
ner. 

The  force  and  shock  of  the  fall  had  stunned  him,  but  it  was 
not  long  before  he  began  to  rally  and  look  about  him. 

As  ho  sat  up,  rubbing  his  confused  head  and  trying  to  realize 
what  had  happened  to  him,  Doctor  Hoyt  glanced  curiously 
from  him  to  Geoffrey. 

Both  were  dressed  in  evening  suits,  both  were  very  pale,  and 
their  resemblance  to  each  other  was  something  wonderful. 

"I  do  not  wonder  that  the  scamp  succeeded  in  his  villainous 
scheme,"  the  physiciau  said,  in  an  asida,  to  Mr.  Huntress.  "I 
never  saw  twins  that  were  more  of  an  exact  counterpart  of  each 
other. 

"Well,  how  do  you  find  yourself  now?"  he  added,  in  his  ab 
rupt,  professional  way,  turning  to  Everet. 

"I  believe  my  shoulder  is  sprained,"  he  replied,  cringing  with 
pain,  as  he  attempted  to  move  his  left  arm. 

"Any  peculiar  faiutness  at   the  stomach — any  internal    pain?" 

"No,  I  reckon  not;  I  have  hardly  come  to  myself  yet, 
though." 

The  doctor  made  another  examination. 

'•You'll  do,"  he  said,  as  he  completed  it;  "there  are  no  bones 
broken  or  out  of  joint,  and  if  tltere  was  anything  very  wrong 
inside  it  would  begin  to  show  itself.  It's  lucky  for  you  that 


AN  ACCIDENT  R&VEALZ  AN  HEIR-LOOM.  263 

you  haven't  a  dislocated  neck.  The  next  time  you  want  to  play 
pugilist  don't  choose  a  flight  of  stairs  for  your  battle-ground. 
Now,  if  you'll  take  my  advice,  you'll  make  tracks  for  your 
hotel,  give  yourself  a  good  rubbing  all  over  with  alcohol,  and  go 
to  bed." 

Everet  glanced  darkly  at  the  man,  and  it  was  on  his  tongue  to 
tell  him  that  he  should  do  no  such  thing;  but  he  had  been  too 
thoroughly  shaken  up  by  his  fall  to  feel  in  a  very  defiant  state, 
and  he  lealized,  too,  that  he  had  received  very  good  counsel, 
which  it  might  te  wise  to  heed. 

Mr.  Huntress,  after  hearing  the  doctor's  verdict,  had  slipped 
quietly  from  the  room,  feeling  greatly  relieved;  but  he  returned 
in  a  few  moments  with  several  small  articles  in  his  hand,  v.'hich 
he  had  picked  up  in  the  hall  and  on  the  stairs. 

There  was  a  small  pearl-handled  knife,  a  Russia  leather  wal 
let,  two  or  three  pieces  of  gold,  and  some  of  silver. 

These  he  handed  to  the  young  man. 

''They  must  have  slipped  from  your  pockets  as  you  fell,"  he 
•aid. 

Everet  received  them  without  even  a  civil  acknowledgment, 
and  replaced  them  in  his  pockets. 

"Does  this  belong  tr  you  also?"  Mr.  Huntress  asked,  holding 
out  a  small,  glittering,  peculiarly  shaped  object. 

"Yes;  thanks,"  he  now  had  the  grace  to  say,  in  an  eager  tone. 
"It  is  a  pocket  piece  and  an  heir-loom;  I  would  not  lose  it  for  a 
great  deal,"  and  he  heid  out  his  hand  for  it. 

Geoffrey  glanced  up  carelessly  at  these  words;  then  he  stepped 
quickly  forward,  his  eyea  glittering,  a  strange  expression  on  his 
face. 

"Lot  me  look  at  that,  if  you  please,"  he  said. 

Mr.  Huntress  passed  it  to  him,  although  Everet  Mapleson 
frowned  at  the  act. 

If  Geoffrey  had  been  pale  before  he  was  ghastly  now  as  he 
received  that  small  object  on  the  palm  of  his  hand. 

It  was  half  of  a  knight- templar's  crass,  which  had  been  broken 
di(i(/onallyt  and  was  beautifully  enameled  and  engraven! 

He  turned  it  over,  holding  it  nearer  the  light  to  examine  the 
back  of  it. 

"Ha!"  he  exclaimed,  with  a  violent  start,  while  he  glanced 
•wonderingly  at  Everet,  who  was  also  regarding  him  with  aston 
ishment. 

"Will  you  tell  me  how  this  happens  to  be  in  your  possession?" 
Geoffrey  askei?,  meeting  his  eye, 

"Certainly,"  the  young  man  returned,  with  mock  politeness; 
"it  belonged  to  my  great-grandfather,  who  served  in  the  revolu 
tion.  He  became  a  knight-templar  just  before  enlisting,  and 
was  presented  with  that  emblem  by  the  lodge  of  master  masons 
over  which  he  had  served  as  W.  M.  The  date  of  the  preseuta- 


264  GEOFFREY  LEARNS  THJS  TRUTH  AT  LAST, 

tion,  with  my  venerable  relative's  name,  is  engraved  on  the 
back,  as  you  perceive." 

"What  became  of  the  other  portion  of  it?"  Geoffrey  asked. 

"My  father  has  it." 

"  Your  father  has  it  ?" 

"Yes,"'  curtly  responded  Everet,  annoyed  by  this  question 
ing,  yet  impelled  to  reply  by  something  that  struck  him  as 
peculiar  in  Geoffrey's  manner.  "It  was  broken  by  accident," 
he  added,  "after  my  ancestor's  return  from  the  war,  never  hav 
ing  left  his  person  during  all  that  time,  and  he  gave  one  half  to 
his  son — 'as  a  pocket  piece,'  he  said — keeping  the  other  himself, 
At  his  death  his  portion  was  given  to  my  father,  who  had  been 
named  for  him,  and,  when  I  was  of  au  age  to  appreciate  it,  my 
grandfather's  half  was  handed  down  to  me." 

"And  your  father— you  are  sure — has  the  other  part  of  it  now?" 
Geoffrey  inquired,  with  pale  lips. 

"Yes,"  Everet  said,  with  a  shrug  of  his  shoulders;  "we  have 
always  regarded  them  as  heir-looms,  and  have  been  careful  not 
to  lose  them." 

"/have  a  'pocket  piece'  which  /  have  been  'careful  not  to 
lose'  since  it  came  into  my  possession,"  Geoffrey  remarked  in  a 
hard,  dry  tone. 

He  took  something  from  one  of  his  pockets  as  he  spoke,  laid 
it  beside  that  other  piece  lying  in  his  palm,  aud  held  it  out  for 
Everet  Maplesou  to  see. 


CHAPTER   XLI. 

GEOFFREY  LEARNS  THE  TRUTH  AT  LAST. 

It  was  that  portion  of  a  knight- templar's  cross  which  old 
Abe  Brown  had  given  to  Geoffrey  when  he  was  in  Santa  Fe  the 
previous  summer. 

It  matched  Everet's  exactly,  and  the  two  fragments  formed  a 
perfect  cross  as  they  lay  together  in  Geoffrey's  palm, 

Everet  glanced  at  it,  then  shot  one  quick,  frightened  look 
into  Geoffrey's  stern  face. 

"Where  did  you  get  it?"  he  demanded,  in  husky  tones,  and 
starting  to  his  feet  in  great  excitement. 

"It  was  found  in  Santa  Fe,  where  your  father — where  my 
father  lost  it." 

"1'our  father  ?'*  cried  Everet,  in  a  startled  tone. 

"Yes,  Everet  Mapleson,  you  and  I  are— brothers  /" 

"It  is  a  lie  I"  hoarsely  shouted  Everet,  recoiling,  yet  knowing 
but  too  well  that  he  spoke  only  truth;  "do  you  suppose  I  would 
own " 

"Stop  /"  commanded  Geoffrey,  sternly;  "do   not  utter   words 


GEOFFREY  LEARNS  TEE  TRUTH  AT  LAST.  265 

•which  you  may  have  bitter  cause  to  regret  later.  This  broken 
emblem,  which  I  thought  BO  valueless  when  it  came  into  my 
possession,  now  becomes  the  strongest  link  iu  the  chain  of  evi 
dence  that  proves  my  identity,  Last  summer  I  traced  this  man 
to  Santa  Fe,  and  there  lost  his  trail.  There  was  only  this  paltry 
piece  of  gold,  with  the  name  William  engraven  upon  it,  to  show 
that  he  had  ever  been  there.  I  believed  that  my  father's  name 
•was  William  Dale,  for  I  learned  that  a  man  bearing  that  name 
had  lived  in  a  certain  mining  district  of  New  Mexico,  where,  as 
I  was  told,  I  was  born  and  my  mother  had  died.  I  found  my 
old  nurse  and  her  husband,  who  related  all  they  knew  of  her 
life  there,  and  into  whose  care  my  father  had  given  rae  after  her 
death.  They,  however,  did  not  even  know  his  place  of  resi 
dence  or  address;  letters,  he  told  them,  would  reach  him  super 
scribed  'Lock  Box  43,  Santa  Fe.'  At  Santa  Fe  I  was  gireu  this 
piece  of  jewelry  by  a  man  who  had  been  postmaster  there  many 
years  ago,  and  who  remembered  the  man  that  lost  it,  but  could 
not  recall  his  name.  Upon  it  was  engraven  'William,'  which  I 
had  been  told  was  my  father's  first  name,  and  now  I  find  the 
other  half  of  the  cross  bearing  that  of  Mapleson  on  it.  Is 
jour  father's  r.ame  William  Date  Mapleson?"  Geoffrey  suddenly 
asked,  as  if  the  thought  had  just  couie  to  him. 

"No,"  was  the  curt,  scornful  reply,  although  it  was  evident 
that  the  speaker  was  striving  to  conceal  the  agitation  which 
Geoffrey's  account  had  caused. 

Geoffrey  stood  silently  and  thoughtfully  observing  the  cross 
th»t  lay  in  his  hand  and  the  name  inscribed  upon  it. 

He  no  longer  had  any  doubt  about  his  being  able  to  solve  the 
mystery  of  hia  birth,  though  lie  greatly  feared  that  the  solving 
would  only  serve  to  confirm  his  worst  fears. 

"Then,"  he  said,  iu  a  cold,  hard  tone,  "he  dropped  that  of 
Mapleson  and  assumed  that  of  Dale  for  purposes  best  known  to 
himself,  for  I  know  now,  as  well  as  I  wish  to,  that  your  father 
and  mine  are  one  and  the  same  person.  I  know  that  he  must 
Lave  taken  a  beautiful  girl  to  the  mining  region  of  which  I  have 
spoken— that  she  lived  there  with  him  as  his  wife  under  tho 
name  of  Dale.  He  called  her  Annie.  I  have  seen  her  grave,  and 
those  who  knew  them  both  claim  that  he  loved  her  as  his  own 
life,  and  was  broken-hearted  when  she  died.  Whether  she 
had  any  legal  claim  upon  him;  whether  /,  the  child  who  was 
born  to  them  there,  can  claim  honorable  birth  and  an  honorable 
name,  are  points  which  remain  to  be  proved.  Do  you  know 
aught  of  this  story?"  Geoffrey  demanded  of  Everet,  in  con 
clusion. 

The  young  man  did  not  reply  for  a  moment. 

He  seemed  to  be  considering  whether  it  would  be  best  to  con 
ceal  or  proclaim  what  he  had  discovered,  and  denounce  the 
man,  whom  he  had  so  long  hated,  as  the  illegitimate  son  of  his 
father- 


266  GEOFFREY  LEARNS  THE  TRUTH  AT  LAST. 

Suddenly  lie  threw  back  his  head  iu  a  reckless  way,  an  evil 
light  in  his  eyes,  a  curl  of  scorn  on  his  lips. 

"Yes,"  he  said,  "I  do  know  the  story  from  beginning  to  end. 
I  know  that  a  girl  naraecl  Annie  Dale  disappeared  very  mysteri 
ously  from  Richmond  more  than  twenty  years  ago;  that  she 
fled  to  her  lover,  who  met  her  at  Kansas  City,  and  then  took  her  to 
that  mining  village  among  the  mountains  of  New  Mexico,  where 
she  lived  with  him  as  his  mistress,  though  nominally  as  his  wife, 
until  she  died." 

"That  man  was  William  Mapleson,  your  father?"  said  Geof 
frey,  in  a  tone  that  was  terrible  from  its  calmness. 

"That  man  was  William  Mapleson,  my  father,"  repeated 
Everet,  defiantly,  though  the  blood  mounted  hotly  to  his  brow 
as  he  said  it,  showing  that  he  was  not  yet  quite  hardened 
enough  not  to  feel  something  of  shame  over  the  confession. 

"Did  he  give  you  the  history  of  that  exceedingly  honorable 
portion  of  his  life?"  Geoffre?  asked,  with  curling  lips. 

"No;  I  found  it  out  for  myself.  I  have  never  felt  at  ease  with 
your  resemblance  to  me:  it  has  haunted  me  day  and  night," 
Everet  replied.  "A  slight  circumstance  occurred  to  arouse  my 
suspicions  that  there  might  be  some  natural  cause  for  it  I  be 
gan  to  trace  the  mystery,  and  followed  it  up  until  I  learned  the 
truth — that  you  were  Aunia  Dale's  child,  and  she  was — what  I 
have  already  told  you.  I  suppose,  in  point  of  fuct,  that  we  are, 
in  a  certain  way,  related  to  each  other,"  he  went  on,  with  a  dis 
agreeable  shrug.  "If.  undei'  the  circumstances,  you  can  derive 
any  comfort  from  it,  much  good  may  it  do  you." 

Geoffrey  grew  crimson,  and,  for  a  moment,  his  eyes  blazed 
wrath  fully  at  this  taunt. 

"Was  Mr.  William  Mapleson  at  Saratoga  during  any  portion 
of  last  summer?"  he  asked,  struggling  for  self-control. 

"I  believe  ho  ran  up  there  for  a  few  days  when  he  como  North 
to  join  my  mother  at  Nowport,"  Everet  returned,  wondering 
what  the  question  could  have  to  do  with  the  point  under  dis 
cussion 

Geoffrey  glanced  significantly  at  Mr.  Huntress. 

"What  was  his  object  in  registering  there  as  William  Dale?" 
he  asked. 

Everet  looked  up,  astonished. 

"He  did  not,"  he  said,  skeptically. 

"He  did.  I  met  him  one  morning  in  Congress  Park.  He 
accosted  me  by  your  nauie,  believing  mo  to  be  yourself,  and 
then  became  greatly  agitated  upon  being  informed  of  his  mis 
take  and  told  who  I  was.  My  suspicions  were  aroused,  for  I 
have  always  been  on  the  alert  to  discover  my  parentage,  and  I 
begged  an  interview  with  him.  He  appointed  one  for  five 
o'clock  at  his  room,  number  forty- five,  at  the  United  States 
Hotel.  I  was  punctual,  but  when  I  inquired  for  the  gentleman 
•who  occupied  room  forty-five,  I  wr.s  told  that  ho  had  left  at 


GEOFFREY  LSARXS  THE  TRUTH  AT  LAST.          267 

noon.  I  examined  the  register,  and  fonnd  his  name  entered  as 
•William  Dale,  from  Santa  Ee,  New  Mexico.'" 

"Then  it  must  have  been  some  one  else,'5  Everet  affirmed,  per 
plexed  over  the  affair,  and  yet  instinctively  feeling  that  his 
father  must  have  been  concerned  in  it,  though  just  how  he  was 
at  a  loss  to  imagine. 

"That  was  the  thread  by  which  I  traced  him  to  Santa  Fe,  and 
from  there  to  that  mining  village,  where  I  learned  the  story  of 
my  birth  and  my  mother's  death;  and  this  story  will  have  to 
be  sifted  to  the  bottom, ''  Geoffrey  concluded  in  a  resolute  tone. 

"Really,  I  do  not  see  what  use  there  will  be  in  raising  a  row 
over  the  affair,"  retorted  Everet,  with  a  supercilious  glare  at  the 
young  man.  "There  are  hundreds  of  men  who  have  been  rather 
gay  and  wild  in  their  youth,  and  if  there  have  been  girls  in  the 
world  who  were  foolish  enough  to  accept  their  favors,  it  is 
nobody's  business  but  their  own,  and  worse  than  folly  to  rake  it 
over.  Colonel  William  Mapleson  is  a  man  who  occupies  an 
honorable  position  and  bears  a  pioud  name.  He  is  a  high- 
tempered  gentleman,  too,  and  I  warn  you  will  brook  no  non 
sense  from  any  one." 

Doctor  Hoyt,  who  had  been  an  interested  listener  thus  far 
during  the  interview,  turned  abruptly  on  his  heel,  with  an  ex 
pression  of  supreme  contempt  at  this  speech. 

"Honorable  position — proud  name,  forsooth!  Possesses  more 
temper  than  morality,  I  should  judge,  if  his  sou  is  a  specimen 
of  the  race,"  he  muttered,  and  then  passed  up  stairs  to  ascertain 
if  all  was  going  well  with  his  fair  patient. 

The  haughty  heir  of  the  house  of  Mapleson  winced  visibly  be 
neath  the  scathing  words. 

"Nevertheless,"  said  Geoffrey,  with  deliberate  emphasis,  in 
reply  to  what  he  had  said,  "Colonel  William  Mapleson  will  have 
to  answer  to  me,  personally,  for  the  wrong — if  wrong  there  was 
— that  he  did  my  mother.  Now,  sir,  we  have  had  enough  of 
this  for  to-night,  and  yon  can  go!  Shall  I  call  a  carriage  for  you, 
or  do  you  prefer  to  walk  ?" 

Everet  burned  to  defy  him  in  this,  but  he  knew  it  would  be 
Tiseless  to  resist  the  resolute  purpose  which  he  read  in  every  line 
of  his  stern  face;  so,  after  a  moment's  hesitation,  he  said  he 
would  walk;  and,  with  a  sullen  scowl  on  his  face,  and  wrath 
flaming  in  his  heart,  he  left  the  house  and  bent  his  steps  toward 
the  nearest  hotel. 

Neither  Geoffrey  nor  Mr.  Huntress  thought  of  retiring  that 
night,  though  the  physician  soon  after  went  away,  saying 
Gladys  would  do  well  enough  for  several  hours,  and  he  would 
come  around  in  the  morning;  while  Mrs.  Huntress  caught  a 
little  sleep  upon  the  lounge  in  her  daughter's  room.  They  sat 
together  until  morning,  reviewing  Geoffrey's  life  and  laying 
plans  for  future  action. 

When  morning  dawned  it  broke  upon  a  saddened,  yet,  withal, 


aes        GSbffikET  LJSAKNS  THE  TRUTH  AT  LAST. 

upon  a  thankful  household.  Saddened  because  of  the  terrible 
ending  of  all  the  bright  hopes  which  they  had  cherished  only  a 
few  hours  previous,  hut  thankful  because  Gladys  awoke  once 
more  herself,  and  that  no  harm  had  befallen  Geoff,  as  they  feared, 
during  his  long  absence  from  home. 

But  Gladys  was  very  sad,  and  could  not  refer  to  the  events  of 
tbe  night  before  without  becoming  greatly  agitated;  but  her 
long  rest  had  given  her  strength  and  more  of  self-control,  while 
she  had  been  greatly  comforted  upon  being  told  that  she  need 
never  look  upon  Everet  Mapleson's  face  again  unless  she  chose, 
ami  that  an  appeal  to  the  law  would  soon  free  her  from  the  hate 
ful  tiw  that  bound  her  to  him. 

She  nearly  broke  down  again,  however,  when  Geoffrey  went  to 
her,  late  in  the  day,  and  clung  to  him  almost  hysterically;  bufc 
he  spoke  cheerfully,  and  tried  to  comfort  her  with  brighter 
Lopes  for  the  future,  although  his  own  heart  was  terribly  bur 
dened  by  the  great  sorrow  that  had  fallen  so  like  a  thunderbolt 
upon  them  both. 

"Oh!  -Geoff,"  Gladys  burst  forth  at  one  time  during  the  inter 
view,  "must  all  Brooklyn  and  New  York  ring  with  this  dread 
ful  story!" 

"No,  my  darling.  Uncle  August  and  I  have  been  considering 
that  matter,  and  we  think  that  no  one,  save  those  of  us  who 
already  know  the  truth,  need  learn  anything  of  it.  I  am  sur 
prised  that  your  fiitlier  and  mother  were  enabled  to  act  so  dis 
creetly  during  all  the  confusion  last  night — not 'even  a  servant 
suspects  anything  wrong  as  yet,"  Geoffrey  said,  reassur 
ingly. 

"Bat  will  he  keep  still  about  it?"  Gladys  asked,  with  a  shiver 
of  aversion,  as  her  mind  reverted  to  Everet  Mapleson. 

"I  think  he  will  be  very  glad  to,  dear — at  least  for  the  pres 
ent,"  Geoffrey  said,  confidently,  "until  he  finds  out  just  what 
steps  we  intend  to  take.  It  would  be  very  mortifying  to  him  to 
Lave  his  villainy  discovered,  and  become  a  target  for  everybody 
to  shoot  at,  because  he  failed  to  get  possession  of  the  bride  he 
Lad  strained  every  nerve  to  win,  while  we  shall  do  our  utmost 
as  soon  as  I  return." 

"Return !     Where  are  you  going?" 

"Ah!  has  not  Aunt  Alice  told  yon?  I  am  going  South  imme 
diately,  to  try  to  get  at  the  truth  regarding  my  birth." 

He  then  told  her  something  of  the  revelations  of  last  night, 
and  she  was  greatly  astonished  and  shocked  to  learn  of  his 
relation  to  the  man  who  had  so  injured  them  both. 

"Brothers,  Geoff?  Jnst  to  think  of  it!"  she  cried,  wonder- 
ingly. 

He  smiled  somewhat  bitterly. 

"I  fear  if  what  ho  says  is  true,  that  the  Louse  of  Mapleson 
•will  uot  own  me  either  as  a  son  or  a  brother.  However,  I  wish 
to  know  the  truth,  whatever  it  is,  aud  then  just  as  soou  as  I  re- 


GEOFFREY  LtiARNS  THE  TUU1H  AT  LAST.  269 

turn  we  will  try  to  have  that  wretched  fraud  of  last  night  recti 
fied." 

"Can  it  be  done  without  publicity,  Geoffrey?"  Gladys  asked, 
anxiously. 

"Yes,  I  believe  it  can  be  arranged  so  th.it  very  few  will  ever 
be  any  wiser  for  what  has  happened." 

This  was  one  of  the  things  that  Mr.  Huntress  and  Geoffrej 
had  talked  of  the  night  before,  and  the  events  of  the  next  few 
days  confirmed  them  iu  the  belief  that  all  scandal  might  ba 
avoided. 

The  next  morning  Mr.  Huntress  went  to  the  house  where 
Everet  Maplesou  had  been  accustomed  to  stop,  but  he  was  -not 
to  be  fojnd  there.  Ho  had  left  nearly  two  weeks  previous — the 
day  after  he  had  met  Gladys  at  the  opera — they  discovered  later. 
Afterward  they  learned  that  he  had  hidden  himself  in  a  little 
town  a  few  miles  out  of  the  city,  and  there  matured  his  plans, 
and  hired  his  accomplice  to  assist  iu  his  miserable  plot  ou  the 
evening  of  the  wedding. 

Upon  leaving  the  Huntress  mansion,  after  his  interview  with 
Geoffrey,  and  the  discovery  that  he  knew  so  ranch  of  his  history, 
he  had  stolen  away  tp  the  neaivst  hotel,  where,  after  thinking 
every  tiling  quietly  over,  he  began  to  realize  that  lie  could  never 
compel  Gladys  to  acknowledge  herself  as  his  wife;  he  believed, 
too,  that  the  courts  would,  upou  learning  the  facts,  annul  the 
marriage. 

"Oh!  if  Iliad  only  kept  still,  and  got  her  away  before  the 
deception  was  discovered,  my  triumph  would  have  been  com 
plete,  and  now  I  have  lost  everything."  lie  groaned  in  impotent 
wrath;  and  yet  ho  was  so  furious  at  Geoffrey  that  he  vowed  he 
would  make  a  desperate  fight  aga'nst  a  divorce,  if  for  nothing 
but  to  keep  the  lovers  apart.  But  until  they  should  take  some 
decisive  step  he  resolved  to  keep  still  and  out  of  sight,  for  he 
also  was  far  too  proud  to  care  to  become  the  subject  of  a 
scandal. 

It  occasioned  no  surprise  among  the  friends  of  the  Huntress 
family  when  they  learned  that  "young  Mrs.  Huntress"  had  not 
been  able  to  sail  for  Europe,  and  that  the  trip  was  to  be  post 
poned  for  at  least  another  month — possibly  until  spring. 

Her  physician  also  prohibited  all  cat  tars  and  excitement,  giv 
ing  as  a  reason  that  her  strength  had  been  overtaxed,  and  she 
had  barely  escaped  nervous  prostration. 

People  did  not  wonder  at  this;  it  appeared  *ery  reasonable, 
for  they  knew  the  season  had  been  very  gay,  that  the  young 
couple  had  been  in  great  demand,  and  all  this,  together  with, 
the  excitement  and  care  of  preparing  for  such  a  wedding,  was 
enough  to  wear  out  any  young  girl. 

So  Gladys  and  her  mother  remained  quietly  at  home,  hedged 
about  with  these  restrictions,  while  Geoffrey  and  Mr.  linn  truss 
went  South. 


270  UEOFFREY  LEARSS  THE  TRUTH  AT  LAST. 

Mr.  Huntress  bad  insisted  upon  accompanying  the  young 
man,  for  he  was  determined  that  full  justice  should  be  done  the 
boy  whom  he  had  reared  and  loved  as  his  own  sou.  It'  Colonel 
Mapleson  had  wronged  his  mother  he  should  at  least  tell  the 
story  kindly  and  courteously  to  her  child;  if  h<3  Lad  inherited, 
anything  from  her  it  would  be  his  business  to  see  that  he  had 
bis  rights. 

The  weary  travelers  reached  Richmond  late  one  afternoon. 
They  found  that  Vne  de  1'Eau — Colonel  Maplesou's  estate — was 
a  long  distance  from  the  city,  and  they  would  be  obliged  to  hire 
some  conveyance  thither. 

Tins  was  not  an  easy  thing  to  accomplish,  for  the  night  prom 
ised  to  be  very  dark,  the  roads  were  muddy,  and  t!ie  weather 
unusually  cold  for  that  genial  climate.  But  by  offering  a  gener 
ous  sum,  for  he  was  anxious  to  have  the  ordeal  before  them  over 
as  soon  as  possible,  Mr.  Huntress  succeeded  in  getting  a  man 
to  take  them  to  their  destination. 

It  was  seven  o'clock  when  they  at  last  reached  tbe  home  of 
the  proud  Southerner,  and  the  two  men  alighted  before  the 
door  with  grave  faces,  and  nerves  that  were  none  too  steady,  in 
contemplation  of  the  interview  before  them. 

"Yes,  sar,  Massa  Maplesou's  home,  sah,"  the  dusky-skinned 
servant  replied  to  Mr.  Huntress'  inquiry,  and  then  obsequiously- 
led  the  way  through  the  magnificent  hall,  which  divided  the 
stately  mansion  through  the  center,  to  a  spacious  and  richly 
furnished  library  at  its  lower  end. 

"A.  D.  Huntress  and  Son,"  Mr.  Huntress  wrote  on  a  card, 
and  handed  it  to  the  servant  to  be  given  to  his  master,  and  then 
they  sat  down  to  await  his  coming. 

Five  minutes  later — though  it  seemed  as  many  hours  to  those 
impatient  men — Colonel  Mapleson  appeared  in  the  door-way, 
opposite  August  Huntress. 

He  was  a  tall,  rather  spare  man,  with  a  finely  shaped  head 
proudly  poised  above  a  pair  of  military  looking  shoulders,  a 
massive  brow,  surmounted  by  a  wealth  of  iron-gray  hair,  regu 
lar,  handsome,  yet  rather  haughty  features,  a  keen,  eagle- 
glancing  blue  eye,  and  an  energetic  manner. 

Geoffrey  recognized  him  instantly.  It  was  the  same  man 
•whom  he  had  met  in  Congress  Park  at  Saratoga. 

"Ah!  Mr.  Huntress,"  remarked  tlie  gentleman,  courteously, 
as  his  visitor  arose  to  greet  him;  "glad  to  see  you,  sir — glad  to 
see  you!" 

Then  espying  Geoffrey  whom,  having  been  seated  on  his  right 
and  a  little  back  of  him  as  he  entered,  lie  had  not  at  first  seen, 
lie  started,  his  face  lighted  witli  pleasure,  and  he  went  toward 
him  with  outstretched  hand,  exclaiming,  heartily: 

"Holloa!  Everet!  where  on  earth  did  you  drop  from?  I  sup 
posed  you  still  in  New  York  having  a  gay  time." 

Mr.  Huntress  came  forward  at  this,  saying: 


FURTHER  DEVELOPMENTS.  271 

"You  have  made  a  slight  mistake,  sir;  this  young  mau  is  my 
sou  by  adoption — Mr.  Geoffrey  Dale  Huntress." 

Colouel  Mapleson  recoiled,  an  asheu  pallor  overspreading  hia 
face  at  these  words,  a  look  of  fear  followed  by  one  of  dismay, 
then  of  conviction  springing  into  his  eyes,  which  were  fastened 
upon  that  familiar  yet  strange  face. 

Then  he  staggered  toward  a  chair,  sank  heavily  into  it,  his 
head  dropping  upon  his  breast,  while  he  murmured,  in  a  tone  of 
awe  mingled  with  agony: 

"At  last!   at  last  it  has  come!" 

There  was  an  awkward  silence  after  that,  during  which  the 
man  appeared  to  be  absorbed  in  painful  thought. 

Mr.  Huntress  broke  il  at  last    by  remarking  iu  a  grave  tone: 

"I  told  you,  Colouel  Maplesou,  that  this  is  my  sou  by  adop 
tion  ;  we  have  recently  learued  that  he  is  your  son  by  the  more 
sacred  tie  of  blood,  and  our  errand  here  to-night  is  to  learn  how 
much  or — how  little  that  may  mean." 

The  man  sat  suddenly  erect,  as  his  guest  concluded  this  speech, 
and  looked  almost  imperial  as  he  bent  his  keen,  flashing  eye  full 
upon  August  Huntress,  a  firm  purpose  written  on  his  face,  and 
a  look,  also,  which  plainly  told  that  he  had  never  yet  turned  his 
back  upon  danger,  trouble,  or  an  enemy,  and  never  would. 

"You  shall  learn,  that,  sir,"  he  said  iu  a  clear,  proud  tone; 
"Annie Dale  was  my  lawful  wife,  and  he,"  extending  a  haud  that 
trembled  visibly  toward  Geoffrey,  "is  our  son!" 


CHAPTER  XLIL 

FURTHER   DEVELOPMENTS. 

Mr.  Huntress  was  struck  dumb  with  astonishment  by  this 
unexpected  declaration;  but  Geoffrey  sprang  forward,  clasped 
that  extended  hand,  and  exclaimed,  in  a  voice  that  shook  with 
emotion: 

"Oh,  sir,  1  can  never  express  my  gratitude  for  that  blessed 
assurance!" 

Colouel  Mapleson's  fingers  closed  almost  convulsively  over 
the  young  man's  hand,  while  he  turned  his  gaze  upon  him, 
searching  his  face  with  eager,  hungry  eyes. 

"Geoffrey,"  he  murmured,  iu  a  trembling  tone,  "you  are  my 
Annie's  boy." 

His  lipa  quivered,  a  great  trembling  seized  him,  and  he 
seemed  on  the  point  of  breaking  down  utterly. 

It  was  several  minutes  before  he  could  collect  himself  suffi- 
cieutly  to  speak,  although  he  struggled  manfully  with  his  emo 
tion. 

At  length  he  turned  again  to  Geoffrey,  to  whoso  hand  he  had 
clur.g  ;il!  the  time,  saying: 


272  FURTHER  DEVELOPMENTS. 

"How  like  you  ave  to  Everet,  my  other  son.  I  mistook  you 
for  him  when  I  first  entered  the  room." 

"So  you  did  upon  one  other  occasion,  if  you  remember," 
Geoffrey  returned. 

The  man  made  a  gesture  of  pain. 

"Ah!"  he  said,  humbly,  "you  will  forgive  me,  I  hope,  when  I 
explain  why  I  avoided  you  at  that  time.  But  this  meeting  lias 
unnerved  me.  I  find  myself  unable  to  either  think  or  speak 
collectedly.  Will  you  both  remove  your  outer  coats,  and  then, 
Geoft'rey,  tell  me  the  story  of  your  life — of  your  adoption  by 
this  gentleman,  while  I  try  to  recover  myself.  But  tirsi  tell  me 
have  you  both  dined?  Shall  I  not  order  something  for  you?" 
he  concluded,  with  thoughtful  hospitality. 

They  assured  him  that  they  had  dined  just  before  leaving 
Richmond,  and  needed  nothing;  and  then,  having  removed 
their  overcoats  as  requested,  Geoffrey  began  his  tale. 

His  face  had  brightened  wonderfully  during  the  last  few  mo 
ments;  the  expression  of  tense  anxiety,  of  doubt  and  apprehen 
sion,  had  all  faded  from  it,  and  he  looked  more  like  himself 
than  he  had  done  since  the  day  of  his  interrupted  marriage;  it 
•was  such  a  blessed  relief  to  know  that  no  stigma  was  attached  to 
his  birth. 

He  told  all  that  he  had  learned  of  his  history  through  Jack 
and  Margery  Heuly,  and  how  he  had  so  strangely  come  upon 
them  while  striving  to  follow  up  the  faint  clew  tliat  he  had  ob 
tained  of  his  father  at  Saratoga;  of  his  having  been  found  so 
helpless  and  forlorn  in  New  York  by  Mr.  Huntress;  of  the  res 
toration  of  his  mental  faculties  through  his  kindness  and  inter 
est,  and  of  the  happy  life  that  he  had  sincd  led  as  a  member  of 
his  household.  The  only  incidents  that  he  omitted  were  those 
in  which  Everet — his  father's  other  son — had  been  concerned, 
and  which  he  would  not  then  pain  him  by  mentioning,  though 
possibly  they  might  have  to  be  told  later. 

Colonel  Mapleson  listened  with  rapt  interest  and  attention 
throughout  the  whole  recital,  and  appeared  deeply  moved  dur 
ing  that  portion  which  related  to  his  mental  infirmity. 

When  it  was  all  told,  he  seemed  to  fall  into  a  painful  reverie; 
his  face  was  inexpressibly  sad,  his  attitude  despondent,  as  if 
memories  of  the  past,  which  had  thus  been  aroused,  came 
crowding  thick  and  fast  upon  him,  filling  him  with  sorrow  and 
regret. 

Finally  he  aroused  himself  with  a  long-drawn  sigh,  and  rising, 
went  to  a  handsome  desk  which  was  in  the  room,  in  which  he 
unlocked  a  small  drawer,  and  taking  a  box  from  it,  brought 
and  laid.it  upon  the  table  by  which  Geoffrey  was  sitting. 

"I  had  grown  to  feel  almost  as  if  this  portion  of  my  life  had 
been  blotted  out,"  he  said;  "at  least  until  it  was  so  suddenly  re 
called  to  me  by  meeting  you  at  Saratoga  last  summer.  But  our 
mistake's  rise  up  and  confront  us;  our  sins  find  us  out  when  we 


FURTHER  DEVELOPMENTS.  273 

least  expect  it.  Opeu  that  box,  Geoffrey,  and  draw  what  oonx- 
fort  you  can  from  its  contents." 

Geoffrey's  face  flushed  at  being  thns  addressed. 

He  had  come  there  with  his  heart  full  of  bitterness  toward 
the  man  who,  he  believed,  had  done  his  mother  an  irreparable 
wrong. 

But  now  he  found  those  feelings  fast  changing  to  pity  and 
sympathy  for  him.  His  manly  confession  had  more  than  half 
conquei'ed  him  at  the  outset,  while  his  tender  memories  of  tl*e 
acknowledged  wife  of  his  youth,  and  the  fond  inflection  with 
which  his  voice  was  tilled  every  time  he  uttered  his  own  nam-3, 
told  him  that  some  of  his  dearest  hopes  had  clustered  around 
those  early  days  when  he  had  been  a  wee  infant,  and  stirred  a 
tenderness  within  his  own  heart  for  his  father  which  he  had  nevtir 
imagined  he  could  feel. 

He  untied  the  faded  blue  ribbon  that  bound  the  box  which 
Colonel  Mapleson  had  given  him,  with  fingers  that  trembled 
visibly,  removed  the  lid  and  found  a  thin,  folded  paper  within. 

He  opened  it.  It  was  an  old  telegram  addressed  to  William 
Mapleson,  Santa  Fe,  New  Mexico,  and  contained  these  words: 

"I  will  come,  Will.     Start  at  ten  on  the  eighth." 

There  was  another  paper  underneath  this,  and  his  heart  beak 
rapidly  as  he  drew  it  forth. 

A  blur  came  before  his  eyes,  a  nervous  trembling  seized  him, 
making  the  paper  rattle  in  his  grasp,  for  something  seemed  to 
tell  him,  even  before  he  looked  at  it,  what  it  was. 

Yes,  it  was  even  as  he  had  surmised,  for  there,  in  black  and 
white,  as  plain  and  strong  as  the  law  could  make  it,  was  the 
certificate  which  proved  the  legality  of  the  bond  that  united 
William  Maplesou  and  Annie  Dale,  and  dated  only  a  few  days 
later  than  the  telegram  which  he  had  just  seen. 

They  had  been  married  in  Kansas  City  immediately  upon  the 
arrivui  of  Miss  Dale,  by  the  Rev.  Dr.  A.  K.  Bailey,  of  the  Epis 
copal  church. 

A  song  of  thanksgiving  arose  in  Geoffrey's  heart  as  he  read 
this,  for  it  proved  that  his  mother  had  been  an  honored  wife — 
that  no  stain  had  ever  rested  on  his  birth;  he  was  the  legitimate 
son  of  William  and  Annie  Mapleson,  and  the  burden  of  fear  and 
dread,  that  had  so  long  oppressed  him,  was  rolled  away  from 
his  heart  at  last. 

There  wa«  something  else  in  one  corner  at  the  bottom  of  the 
box — a  tiny  case  of  black  morocco. 

Geoffrey  seized  it  eagerly,  turned  back  the  lid,  and  a  small, 
heavy  ring  of  gold  lay  before  him. 

His  heart  leaped  anew  at  the  sight  of  it;  nothing  bad  been  neg 
lected  to  do  honor  to  the  beautiful  girl  whom  William  Maple- 
Bon  had  loved. 

He  turned  it  toward  the  light  and  read  on  its  inner  surface; 
"W.  M.  to  A.  D.,  Aug.  12th,  18 " 


274  FURTHER  DEVELOPMENTS. 

A  heavy  sigh,  that  was  almost  a  sob,  burst  from  him,  though 
it  was  oue  of  joy  instead  of  sorrow. 

"A  fortune  could  not  purchase  these  from  me,"  he  said,  look 
ing  up  with  moist  eyes,  while  he  reverently  laid  back  in  their 
place  the  priceless  treasures  he  had  found. 

A  spasm  of  pain  contracted  Colonel  Mapleson's  face  at  his 
•words,  for  he  could  well  understand  the  feeling  that  lay  behind 
them,  and  he  could  not  fail  to  realize,  too,  something  of  the 
questionable  position  which  his  boy  had  occupied  all  his  life. 

He  was  very  grave  and  thoughtful,  and  Mr.  Huntress,  as  he 
watched  hioa,  could  see  that  he  was  struggling  with  somo 
weighty  matter  that  lay  upon  his  conscience. 

At  length  he  lifted  his  head,  with  a  quick,  resolute  motion, 
showing  that  he  had  settled  it,  whatever  it  was. 

"Mr.  Huntress  and  Geoffrey,"  he  said,  glanciug  from  one  to 
the  other;  "I  have  a  long  story  to  tell  you,  and  a  hard  one,  too, 
for  not  a  soul  in  the  world  save  you  two  and  the  clergyman  who1 
performed  the  ceremony  really  knows  that  I  was  ever  married 
before  the  present  Mrs.  Maplesou  became  my  wife.  I  am  bound 
to  tell  this  story  not  only  to  you,  but  also  to  her;  that,  as  you 
cannot  fail  to  understand,  will  be  the  hardest  part  of  my  con 
fession." 

Both  his  listeners  sympathized  with  him  deeply.  They  couldl 
easily  perceive  how  humiliating  it  would  be  to  this  proud  man- 
to  make  such  a  disclosure  to  his  wife  after  having  deceived  her 
for  more  than  a  score  of  years;  yet  both  knew  that  it  was  an  act 
of  j'istice  which  should  be  performed  in  order  that  Geoffrey 
might  be  acknowledged  as  a  son  and  heir,  and  thus  attain  his 
proper  position  in  the  world. 

"It  is  a  painful  story,  too,"  the  colonel  went  on,  "for  Geof 
frey.  I  loved  your  mother  with  all  the  strength  of  my  nature — 
as  a  man  loves  but  once  in  his  life — and  when  I  lost  her  the 
world  became  a  blank  to  me,  while  e^en  now  it  is  almost  more 
than  I  can  bear  to  speak  of  it.  T  cannot  tear  the  wound  open 
and  live  over  all  that  experience  more  than  once,  and  if  you  do 
not  object,  I  would  like  Mrs.  Maplesou  to  be  present  while  I 
make  my: confession." 

Mr.  Huntress  urged  him  to  act  according  to  his  own  wishes 
in  the  matter.  As  far  as  he  was  concerned  Mrs.  Mapleson's 
presence  would  make  no  difference,  unless  the  situation  should 
prove  to  be  too  trying  for  her. 

"She  must  know  it  within  a  few  hours  at  the  farthest,  and  it 
will  also  be  necessary  for  her  to  meet  you;  so  it  might  as  well  be 
done  at  once.  What  do  you  say,  Geoffrey?"  Colonel  Mapleson 
asked,  turning  to  his  son. 

"Do  jnst  what  you  think  will  be  for  the  best,  sir,"  he  replied; 
and  his  father  immediately  arose  and  left  the  room. 

"Estelle,"  he.  said,  going  into  his  wife's  boudoir,  where  she 
sat,  haudsoxie  and  stately,  reading  the  latest  magazine, 


FURTHER  DEVELOPMENTS.  'i.:5 

"will  you  come  down   to  the  library  for  a  little  while.     I   havo 
some  callers  to  whom  1  wish  to  introduce  you." 

Something  unnsual  in  her  husband's  tone  made  Mrs.  Maple- 
son  drop  her  book  and  search  his  face. 

He  was  white  to  his  lips. 

"Why,  William,  what  ails  you?  Has  any  thing  happened  to  Ev- 
eret?"  she  questioned,  anxiously,  her  motherhood  aroused  for 
her  child. 

"Everet  is  well,  RO  far  as  I  know,  but " 

"Surely  you  are  ill,  or  you  have  bad  news?"  she  inter 
rupted. 

"No,  I  am  not  ill,  although  some  business  of  a  painful  nature 
has  upset  me  a  trifle,"  be  answered,  knowing  that  he  was  look 
ing  wretched,  and  not  attempting  to  conceal  his  agitation. 

"You  know  I  do  not  like  to  be  mixed  up  with  business  trans 
actions,"  his  wife  replied,  with  an  impatient  shrug  of  her 
shapely  shoulders. 

"But  I  particularly  desire  your  presence  while  I  make  a 
statement  to  those  gentlemen,"  Colonel  Muplesou  said,  striving 
to  speak  more  calmly,  though  the  hand  that  was  resting  on  the 
back  of  Mrs.  Maplesou's  chair  trembled  in  away  to  really  startle 
her. 

"Why,  William,"  she  said,  facing  him,  "have  you  been  get 
ting  into  financial  trouble  at  your  time  of  life?" 

"No;  it  is  an  error — a  mistake  made  long  years  ago  that  I  wish 
to  rectify,"  he  gravely  answered. 

"Who  are  these  people?"  she  asked,  still  searching  his  face 
earnestly. 

"A  Mr.  Huntress  and  his  son  from  New  York." 

"Huntress!"  repeated  the  lady,  reflectively.  "Where  have  I 
heard  that  name  before?" 

"Never  mind  now,  Estelle;  you  can  think  of  tlmi  some  other 
time.  Please  do  not  keep  me  waiting." 

He  to'tk  her  hand,  laid  it  on  his  arm,  and  led  her  from  the 
room,  while  she  wondered  to  see  her  proud  husband  in  tluifc 
mood,  for  there  was  a  gentleness  about  him,  mingled  with  a  hu 
mility  and  a  deprecatory  air,  that  was  entirely  foreign  to  him. 

Not  a  word  was  spoken  by  either  as  they  passed  down  the 
grand  staircase.  Colonel  Mapleson  was  too  absorbed  in  the 
painful  duty  before  him,  while  ''coming  events"  seemed  already 
to  have  "cast  their  shadows"  upon  the  handsome  face  aud  proud 
spirit  of  his  wife. 

A  painful  expression  almost  convulsed  Colonel  Mapleson'a 
face  as  lie  paused  irresolutely  a  moment  before  the  library  door. 

But  his  hesitation  was  only  for  an  instant. 

The  next  hn  turned  the  handle,  led  his  wife  within  the  room, 
when  hr»  closed  and  locked  the  door  to  insure  freedom  from  in 
terruption. 

Then  he  led  his  companion  straight  to  August  Huntress. 


276  COLONEL  MAPLESON'S  tiTOUY. 

"Mr.  Huntress,  allow  me  to  present  to  you  my  wife,  Mrs, 
Mapleson,"  he  said  by  way  of  iutro<luction. 

The  lady  glanced  into  the  gentleman's  face.  Instantly  her 
own  froze  into  a  look  of  horror;  u  shock  went  quivering  through 
her  frame  like  the  blow  of  an  ax  upon  a  tree.  She  started  wild 
ly  back  from  him,  her  eyes  dilated,  her  lips  apitrt. 

"August  Damon!"  she  gasped,  and  sank  fainting  to  the  floor. 


CHAPTER    XLIII. 
COLONEL  MAPLESON'S  STOKY. 

Colonel  Mapleson  sprang  forward  to  lift  his  wife,  amazement 
depicted  on  every  feature. 

August  Huntiess  appeared  like  a  man  suddenly  deprived  of 
his  senses,  and  stood  spell-bound,  gazing  with  a  look  of  awe 
upon  the  prostrate  woman  before  him.  whom  he  instantly  recog 
nized  as  Mrs.  Marston.  the  rr  other  of  Gladys.  « 

Geoffrey,  after  one  astonished  glance  at  this  vivid  tableau, 
started  forward  to  assist  Colonel  Mapleson  to  bear  his  Avife  to  a 
sofa  at  one  end  of  the  room. 

"Shall  I  ring  for  assistance?"  Mr.  Huntress  asked,  rousing 
himself  with  an  effort  from  his  state  of  stupefaction,  and  reach 
ing  toward  a  bell-pall. 

Colonel  Maplesou  turned  sharply  upon  him,  with  a  stern, 
troubled  face. 

"Did  you  ever  meet  my  -wife  before,  sir?"  he  demanded. 

"I — I  think  I  did,  once — years  ago,"  Mr.  Huntress  replied, 
shrinking  from  compromising  the  ladv,  yet  forced  to  tell  the 
truth. 

"Where?"  was  the  terse  query. 

"Parhap1*,"  returned  the  gentleman  addressed,  while  he  met 
his  host's  searching  gaze  frankly  and  steadily,  yet  with  conscious 
dignity;  "perhaps  it  would  be  as  well  to  give  our  immediate  at 
tention  to  the  recovery  of  your  wife,  and  allow  her  to  make  her 
own  explanations  when  she  is  able  to  do  so." 

It  was  a  polite  way  of  telling  him  that  he  would  say  nothing 
more  until  Mrs.  Mapleson  gave  him  permission  to  do  so. 

Colonel  Mapleson  bowed  acquiescence. 

"Hand  me  a  glass  of  water,  if  you  please,"  he  said  to  Geoffrey, 
and  glancing  toward  a  table  on  which  there  was  a  water  service. 
"We  will  do  what  we  can  for  her  ourselves,  without  having  any 
prying  servants  about.  I  do  not  believe  my  wife  ever  fainted 
before." 

He  sprinkled  her  face  vigorously,  bathing  her  temples,  and 
chafing  her  hands,  to  restore  circulation. 

She  began  to  recover  almost  immediately,  and  before   the  ex- 


COLONEL  MAPLESON'S  STORY.  277 

piration  of  ten  minutes  was  able  to  sit  up,  and  called  for  water 
to  drink. 

Her  self- possession  returned  at  the  same  time,  and  looking  up 
in  her  husband's  face,  with  her  usual  brilliant  smile,  as  she  passed 
back  Iu«r  empty  glass,  she  remarked: 

"I  hope,  William,  that  you  and  your  guests  will  excuse  my 
Budden  indisposition.  It  was  a  startling  greeting,  a  sorry  wel 
come  to  strangers.  But  you  did  not  present  me  to  the  other 
gentleman." 

She,  glanced  inquiringly  about  for  Geoffrey,  who  was  standing 
a  little  back  of  her. 

As  their  eyes  met,  she  started,  opening  her  lips  as  if  about  to 
address  him,  believing  him  for  the  instuut  to  be  Everet. 

But  her  mind  worked  very  rapidly,  and  she  checked  her- 
uelf. 

She  remembered  that  she  had  seen  a  young  man  at  Yalo 
who  strangely  resembled  her  son,  and  that  his  name  was  Hunt 
ress. 

This  must  be  he.  But  what  could  he  want  there  in  her 
liome?  And  why  had  his  coming  so  disturbed  her  husband, 
who  was  usually  the  coolest  and  most  collected  of  men? 

The  blood  suddenly  leaped  to  her  temples,  and  then  as  quickly 
receded,  leaving  her  very  pale,  as  the  answer  throbbed  in  her 
brain:  "A  secret  in  his  early  life." 

Colonel  Mapleson  was  watching  her  every  expression;  he 
marked  the  quick  color,  then  her  pallor,  while  lie  wondered  what 
secret  of  her  past  life  lay  in  her  acquaintance  with  August  Damon 
Huntress. 

He,  however,  introduced  Geoffrey,  whom  Mrs.  Maploson 
greeted  very  graciously,  remarking  that  she  believed  she  haci 
Been  him  at  the  last  commencement  of  Yale,  when  he  had  taken 
his  degree  at  the  same  time  with  her  son,  "whom,"  she  added, 
with  a  covert  glance  at  her  husband,  "yon  resemble  to  a  remark 
able,  degree." 

Colonel  Mapleson's  heart  throbbed  heavily.  He  knew  the 
moment  had  come  when  ho  must  mi  vail  a  portion  of  his  life 
which  lie  had  believed  was  buried  in  oblivion. 

"Estelle,"  he  began,  taking  a  chair  and  turning  his  face  a  little 
from  her,  "my  object  in  asking  you  to  meet  these  gentlemen 
was  because  I  have  a  confession  to  make  to  them,  and — to  you; 
a  confession  of  such  a  painful  nature  that  I  felt  I  could  make  it 
only  once,  therefore  I  wish  you  to  hear  it  at  the  same  time." 

Mrs.  Mapleson  glanced  from  him  to  Geoffrey.  She  was  very 
quick,  and  immediately  she  recalled  what  Dr.  Turner,  of  Boston, 
had  told  her  only  the  previous  summer;  for  it  was  she  who  had 
been  his  visitor  that  day;  she  who  had  been  searching  for  August 
Damon's  address  in  the  Boston  Directory.  She  remembered  he 
had  told  her  that  the  man  for  whom  she  was  inquiring  had  adopted 
and  was  educating  a  boy  of  greart  promise,  and  now,  iu  view  of 


278  COLONEL  MAPLESON' 8  STOtiY. 

his  wonderful  resemblance  to  Everet,  she  began  to  suspect  some 
thing  of  the  nature  of  her  husband's  confession. 

"It  is  the  strangest  tiling  in  the  world,"  she  thought,  as  she 
turned  her  eyes  upon  Mr.  Huntress,  and  realized  who  his  chil 
dren,  by  adoption,  were. 

"It  is  the  strangest  tiling  in  the  world,"  was  echoed  in  Mr. 
Huntress'  brain,  as  he  met  her  glance,  and,  with  a  sudden  heart 
throb  of  joy,  realized  something  that  she  did  not. 

"L  will  go  back-as  far  as  my  boyhood,"  Colonel  Mapleson  re 
sumed.  "You  have  heard  me  say,  Estelle,  that  I  was  in  the 
habit  of  visiting  Vue  de  1'Eau,  often  spei-ding  weeks  and  some- 
times  mouths  with  Uncle  Jabez  when  I  was  a  boy.  I  think  I 
could  not  have  been  more  than  twelve,  when,  during  one  of 
those  visits,  I  became  acquainted  with  a  young  girl  just  about 
my  own  age,  who  resided  near  here  with  her  mother.  I  refer  to 
Annie  Dale." 

Mrs.  Mapleson  gave  a  violent  start  at  this;  a  light  broke  over 
her  face,  which  instantly  became  crimson,  then  grew  as  suddenly 
white. 

"We  became  very  fond  of  each  other,"  her  husband  pro 
ceeded,  without  noticing  her  emotion,  "and  we  were  together 
day  after  day,  week  after  week,  playing  ball,  hoop,  battledore 
and  shuttlecock,  sailing  our  boats  together  on  the  stream  which 
feeds  the  pond  that  used  to  run  the  old  mill,  riding  horseback 
together — in  fact,  were  scarcely  separated  from  the  beginning  of 
ray  stay  until  its  end.  It  was  always  the  same  every  time  I 
came;  I  always  sought  my  charming  little  companion  on  the  day 
of  my  arrival,  and  gave  her  my  last  good-by  when  I  went  away. 

"This  went  on  for  several  years,  until  I  grew  to  love  her  with 
all  the  strength  of  my  young  heart,  and  I  fondly  believed  she 
returned  my  affections,  although  she  was  so  modest  and  shy  that 
she  never  betrayed  it,  at  least  after  she  grew  to  womanhood, 
save  by  evincing  pleasure  and  a  sort  of  trustful  content  in  my 
society. 

"There  came  a  time  when  I  resolved  to  confess  my  feelings 
toward  her  and  learn  if  possible  if  she  returned  them,  but  before 
the  time  for  my  visit  arrived  that  year,  Uncle  Jabez  died  and 
everything  was  changed.  This  uncle,"  said  Colonel  Mapleson, 
glancing  from  Mr.  Huntress  to  Geoffrey,  "made  a  very  singular 
•will — a  very  arbitrary  and  unnatural  will.  He  divided  the  whole 
of  his  property,  which  was  very  large,  into  two  portions,  one  of 
which  he  bequeathed  to  me,  the  othei  to  his  niece.  Miss  Estelle 
Everet,  who  is  now  my  wife — upon  the  condition  that  we  would 
marry  each  other.  He  gave  us  until  Miss  Everet  would  be 
twenty-five  to  make  up  our  minds;  if  we  both  refused  to  com 
ply  with  his  wishes  at  the  end  of  that  time,  and  each  married 
some  one  else,  the  whole  fortune  was  to  go  to  a  certain  Robert 
Dale,  who  was  first  cousin  to  our  uncle.  If  either  of  us  died 
during  that  time,  such  an  event  would  free  the  other  party  and 


COLONEL  MAPLEHON'S  STORY.  279 

he  or  she  "would  inherit  the  fortune  thus  left;  if  either  married 
during  that  time  the  same  result  was  to  follow.  I  was  at  that 
time  in  my  twenty-first  year,  Miss  Everet  was  seventeen. 

"You  can  perhaps  imagine  something  of  my  feelings  upon 
learning  the  contents  of  this  will.  I  had  always  expected  to  in 
herit  a  share  of  my  uncle's  property,  for  1  was  a  favorite  with 
him,  and  he  had  hinted  that  I  was  to  be  his  heir;  but  I  had 
never  di'eamed  of  being  hampered  with  any  such  arbitrary  con 
ditions.  I  was  very  indignant.  So  was  my  cousin,  for,  although 
we  had  always  been  the  best  of  friends,  we  felt  that  this  was  a 
matter  in  which  we  should  have  been  left  free  to  choose  for  our 
selves.  However,  the  property  was  divided  between  us,  and  we 
found  ourselves  independent.  I  was  an  orphan,  and  had  been 
entirely  dependent  on  my  uncle;  I  had  just  completed  my  edu 
cation,  and  was  thinking  of  establishing  myself  in  some  business, 
when  I  suddenly  awoke  to  the  fact  that  I  was  rich  and  could 
live  as  I  chose,  provided,  at  the  expiration  of  eight  years,  I 
would  marry  the  woman  my  uncle  had  chosen  for  me.  But  I 
loved  Annie  Dale,  and  I  knew  I  could  not  marry  any  one  else 
•while  my  heart  belonged  so  entirely  to  her.  I  became  so 
•wretched  and  unhappy  over  my  situation,  while  at  the  same 
time  I  could  not  make  up  my  mind  to  part  with  my  newly  ac 
quired  fortune,  that  I  could  not  come  here  to  Vue  de  1'Eau  to 
live,  where  I  should  have  to  meet  her  constantly:  so  I  had  the 
house  closed  and  started  off  on  a  trip  through  the  West. 

"During  my  wanderings  I  went  to  New  Mexico,  where  I 
heard  the  most  wonderful  stories  regarding  the  wealth  of  the 
Morena  Mines.  A  bright  idea  suddenly  came  to  me.  I  would 
invest  in  them — I  would  throw  myself  in  the  business  of  mining 
during  the  next  few  years;  if  what  I  had  heard  was  true  I  could 
easily  double,  perhaps  treble,  what  money  I  put  into  them 
before  I  should  have  to  give  up  my  fortune  according  to  the 
conditions  of  my  uncle's  will — the  money  thus  earned  would  be 
legitimately  mine.  1  could  then  make  over  to  my  cousin  my 
share  of  Jabez  Mapleson's  fortune,  and  be  in  a  comfortable 
situation  to  marry  the  girl  I  loved. 

"Inspired  with  enthusiasm  over  this  idea,  I  bought  largely  in 
the  Morena  Mines,  and  then  bent  all  my  energies  toward  the 
one  object  of  my  life.  The  first  three  years  I  was  very  success 
ful,  and  if  my  luck  continued,  I  knew  that  by  the  end  of 
another  three  I  might  snap  my  fingers  over  Jabez  Maplesou's 
will,  and  secure  the  wife  of  my  choice.  But  just  at  this  time  a 
terrible  temptation  presented  itself  to  me. 

"Annie  Dale's  mother  had  been  a  widow  for  several  years. 
Her  husband  was  a  cousin  of  my  uncle's,  and  when  Mr.  Dale 
died,  leaving  his  wife  and  child  destitute,  Uncle  Jabez  had 
given  them  the  use  of  a  small  cottage  on  his  estate  and  increased 
the  small  annuity,  which  Mrs.  Dale  possessed,  to  a  Bum  that 
enabled  them  to  live  comfortably  with  economy.  Afterward, 


280  COLONEL  MAPLESON'S  STORY. 

when  Annie  grew  older,  they  opened  a  small  private  school,  and, 
having  succeeded  in  securing  all  the  pupils  they  could  accom 
modate,  they  declined  receiving  further  aid  from  him.  They 
lived  very  poorly  and  m eagerly,  however,  and  it  galled  me  to 
see  their  poverty;  so,  upon  coming  into  possession  of  the  estate, 
I  took  advantage  of  their  absence  on  a  visit  at  one  time,  and  had 
the  cottage  thoroughly  repaired  and  newly  furnished  in  a  style 
to  suit  myself.  Mrs.  Dale  was  almost  inclined  to  be  angry  with 
me  for  this,  saying  it  was  far  too  elegant  for  their  position  in  life; 
but  the  deed  was  done,  and  I  laughingly  told  her  it  was  only  a 
poor  return  for  all  the  trouble  I  had  given  her  as  a  boy,  when  I 
tracked  her  spotless  floors  with  my  muddy  boots,  and  depleted 
her  larder  with  my  rapacious  appetite,  as,  day  after  day,  I 
shared  Annie's  lunch. 

"But  I  am  getting  away  from  the  temptation  of  which  I  be 
gan  telling  you,  which  came  to  me  after  I  had  been  three  years 
in  the  mines.  Annie's  mother  died  very  suddenly  after  an  ill 
ness  of  only  a  week,  and  I  did  not  learn  of  the  fact  for  nearly 
two  mouths  afterward.  I  wrote  at  once  to  Annie,  begging  her 
to  choose  some  elderly  companion  and  remain  where  she  was — 
to  consider  the  cottage  still  her  home  and  accept  aid  from  me 
until  I  could  return  and  make  some  permanent  arrangement  for 
her.  I  told  myself  that  if  I  could  only  keep  her  there  in  seclu 
sion  for  a  couple  of  years  longer,  I  should  then  be  in  a  position 
to  return  and  ask  her  to  become  my  wife.  But  in  a  cool,  digni 
fied  letter  she  refused  my  request,  telling  me  that  her  plans  for 
the  future  were  already  made,  and  that  she  was  on  the  eve  of  leav 
ing  for  Richmond,  where  she  was  going  to  remain  with  an  old 
nurse,  until  she  could  obtain  a  position  as  governess  in  some 
family. 

"For  a  week  after  receiving  this  letter  I  fought  a  terrible  bat 
tle  with  myself.  I  could  not  endure  the  thought  of  that  delicate 
girl  going  out  in  the  world  to  toil  for  the  bread  she  ate.  On 
the  other  hand,  if  I  yielded  to  my  own  desire,  and  asked  her  to 
marry  me,  it  would  doom  her  to  a  life  of  hardship  almost  as 
severe,  for  I  could  only  make  over  my  share  of  Uncle  Jahez's 
fortune  to  m.\  cousin  at  a  sacrifice  that  would  leave  me  almost  a 
beggar.  I  could  not  force  a  sale  of  mining  interests  without 
losing  nearly  all  that  I  had  made  during  the  last  three  years.  I 
was  nearly  distracted,  and  I  imagined  a  thousand  evils  and 
dangers  that  might  result  from  Annie  becoming  a  governess. 
Not  only  would  such  a  life  be  a  burdensome  and  disagreeable 
one,  but,  worse  than  that,  she  was  liable  to  meet  some  one  who 
would  be  attracted  by  her  beauty  and  sweetness — some  one  who 
would  win  her,  and  thus  I  should  lose  her. 

"The  thought  was  unbearable,  and  I  resolved  upon  a  desper 
ate  measure.  I  wrote  again  to  her,  confessing  ray  love — that  I 
had  always  loved  her,  and  begging  her  to  come  to  me  and  share 
my  life  in  the  West.  I  told  her  that  I  would  gladly  give  up 


COLONEL  MAPLESON'S  STORY.  281 

fortune — everything — if  she  would  become  my  wife;  and  I 
meaut  to,  by  another  year,  or  as  soon  as  I  could  sell  to  advant 
age.  I  told  her,  also,  that  I  could  not  come  on  for  her,  as  my 
interests  at  the  mines  would  not  admit  of  my  being  absent  long 
enough  for  that,  but  I  would  meet  her  at  Kansas  City,  Missouri, 
where  we  would  be  immediately  married,  and  then  proceed  to 
our  simple  home  among  the  mountains  of  Mew  Mexico.  I 
begged  her  not  to  say  anything  to  any  one  where  she  was  going 
until  after  our  marriage,  when  I  preferred  to  announce  the  fact 
myself.  I  sent  her  a  route  carefully  mapped  out,  and  a  check 
ample  for  all  her  needs,  begging  her  to  telegraph  me  the  day 
and  the  hour  that  she  would  start.  You  have  the  telegram  she 
sent  in  reply  there,"  Colonel  Mapleson  said,  turning  to  Geoffrey, 
and  glancing  at  the  package  which  still  lay  on  the  table  beside 

him. 

"I  have  always  kept,  that  precious  bit  of  paper,"  he  resumed, 
"for  its  contents  made  me  almost  wild  with  joy  when  I  received 
it.  I  set  out  immediately  to  join  my  dear  one,  reaching  Kansas 
City  only  a  few  hours  previous  to  her  own  arrival.  I  had 
everything  arranged,  however,  and  wo  drove  directly  from  the 
station  to  the  house  of  a  prominent  clergyman  of  the  city,  where 
•we  were  married  in  the  presence  of  his  household,  and  three 
Lours  later  we  were  on  our  way  to  New  Mexico. 

"But  I  knew  it  would  never  do  for  me  to  take  my  wife  to  the 
Morena  Mines,  where  I  was  known  by  men  who  were  also  from 
the  South,  and  through  whom  the  knowledge  of  my  marriage 
•would  soon  travel  back  to  Virginia.  Only  a  short  time  previous 
I  had  bought  out  a  man  in  another  district,  getting  his  claim 
for  a  mere  song,  and  not  a  soul  in  the  place  knew  me.  I  re 
solved  to  take  Annie  there,  make  just  as  pretty  and  comfortable 
a  home  as  I  could  for  her,  call  myself  William  Dale,  going  back 
and  forth  from  one  mine  to  the  other,  as  my  business  demanded 
it,  until  I  was  satisfied  to  sell  out  altogether  and  return  to  Vir 
ginia,  proclaim  my  marriage,  and  give  Miss  Everet  the  other  half 
of  her  fortune.  But  wheu  I  confessed  this  to  Annie,  as  of  course 
I  had  to  do  in  order  to  assume  her  name,  she  was  very  un 
happy.  She  was  not  lacking  in  spirit  either,  and  made  me 
almost  despise  myself  for  the  part  I  had  played. 

"  'I  would  never  have  come  to  you  if  I  had  known  this,'  she 
said.  'I  hate  deception  and  double-dealing  of  whatever  nature. 
You  might  have  told  me  frankly  how  you  were  situated,  and  I 
•would  have  waited  and  been  faithful  to  you  until  you  could  have 
openly  made  me  your  wife.' 

"  'But  you  would  not  have  allowed  me  to  take  care  of  you,'  I 
replied. 

"  'No,'  she  answered,  flushing;  'my  pride  would  not  have 
yielded  to  that,  but  I  could  have  done  very  well  for  myself  for  a 
•while,  and  waited  patiently  until  it  was  right  that  we  should  be 
•named.' 


282  THE  COLONELS  tTQRY  CONCLUDED. 

"I  had  a  hard  task  to  pacify  her.  She  was  determined  at  first 
that  the  whole  truth  should  be  confessed,  saying  she  would  uot 
occupy  a  false  positiou.  But  when  I  told  her  that  it  would  ruin 
me  to  for^e  a  Bale  of  ray  stock;  that  I  should  lose  all  the  hard 
labor  of  the  three  years  that  I  had  spent  there,  and  not  even  then 
be  able  to  replace  the  money  frotn  Uncle  Jabez's  fortune  which 
I  had  invested,  she  became  more  reasonable.  I  promised  that  if 
she  would  try  and  be  patient  and  happy  for  a  year,  I  would 
replace  every  dollar  that  was  not  my  own,  and  have  something 
handsome  besides,  as  a  capital  for  myself. 

"I  honestly  meant  to  do  all  this,  for  I  knew  that  I  should 
never  thoroughly  regain  the  respect  of  my  wife  until  I  had 
redeemed  my  positiou  and  hers  before  tiie  world." 

CHAPTER  XLIV. 

THE  COLONEL'S  STORI  CONCLUDED. 

"Annie  and  I  were  very  happy,"  O-lonel  Mapleson  went  on, 
after  a  momentary  pause,  "during  th^  year  that  followed — 
happy  in  spite  of  a  little  cloud  that  had  arisen  so  soon  after  our 
marriage,  for  our  prospects  were  very  enconraging.  I  was  doing 
finely.  Every  month  my  profits  were  increasing,  and  thus  the 
time  of  our  emancipation  was  growing  nearer  If  I  could  only 
replace  what  now  no  longer  properly  belonged  to  me,  Annie 
said  she  would  be  content  to  remain  in  that  mining  country  as 
long  as  I  desired.  She  was  willing  to  live  simply,  e^en  frugally, 
if  I  would  only  do  right,  acknowledge  our  marriage  before  the 
world,  and  not  have  to  hide  like  a  couple  of  criminals. 

"Our  joy  was  increased  tenfold  when,  a  little  before  our  first 
anniversary,  a  bright,  handsome  boy  was  born  to  us.' 

Again  Mrs.  Maplesou  started  and  shot  another  g.vauce  at 
Geoffrey. 

"That  explains  it  all,"  she  murmured. 

"Yes,  Estelle,"  replied  her  husband,  who  caught  the  words, 
"that  explains  why  this  young  man  resembles  Everct  to  &uch  a 
wonderful  degree.  They  are  both  thorough  .Maplesons.  My 
•wife,"  he  continued,  a  sudden  pallor  settling  over  his  face,  an\I 
speaking  now  witli  visible  effort,  "began  to  recuperate  abacs'1' 
immediately  after  his  birth,  her  color  and  strength  returned,  hei 
spirits  seemed  as  light  as  air,  and  she  was  as  happy  as  the  day 
was  long,  in  the  possession  of  her  new  treasure,  while  she  was 
the  most  devoted  little  mother  imaginable.  She  named  her 
baby,  herself.  'Geoffrey  Dale  Maplesou,'  she  said  he  was  to  be 
called,  'only  we  shall  have  to  drop  the  Mapleson  for  a  while,  I 
suppose — only  a  little  while  longer,  Will,'  she  pleaded,  as  sb«: 
twined  her  arms  about  my  neck  and  drew  my  head  down  closft 
to  the  little  one  lying  beside  her. 

"  'My  darling,'  I  told  Iior,  'in  KI\  months,  at  the  farthest,  yott 
phall  go  back  home  as  Mrs.  William  Mapleson.  We  will  call  it 


THE  COLONEL'S  STORY  CONCLUDED.  283 

our  real  wedding  journey.  Estelle  shall  have  her  money,  then  we 
•will  come  buck  here  for  a  few  years  longer,  after  which,  if  all 
continues  to  go  well,  we  shall  have  no  cause  to  regret  Jabez 
Mapleson's  fortune.' 

"I  shall  never  forget  the  look  of  joy  on  her  face  when  I  made 
that  promise,  and  all  during  the  evening  she  was  as  gay  as  a 
child,  and  more  lovely  than  I  had  ever  seen  her.  The  next 
morning  1  was  obliged  to  leave  her  for  a  couple  of  days.  I  had 
to  go  to  the  other  mines,  then  to  Santa  Fe  to  make  a  deposit. 
My  darling  clung  to  me  as  I  bade  her  good-by.  Our  boy  was 
just  two  days  old  then. 

"  'My  Will,  my  Will,  somehow  I  cannot  bear  to  let  you  go  this 
time,  even  for  a  day,  and  two  will  seem  an  age!1  she  said,  as  she 
kissed  me  again  and  again.  Then  she  laughed  at  her  own 
childishness,  told  me  playfully,  though  with  tears  in  her  eyes, 
to  begone  before  she  repeated  her  folly." 

A  groan  burst  from  the  lips  of  the  narrator  at  this  point,  and 
it  seemed  as  if  he  would  not  be  able  to  go  on. 

Mr.  Huntress  and  Geoffrey  both  shifted  their  position,  for 
they  could  not  bear  to  look  upon  his  agonized  face  as  he  thus 
laid  bare  this  sacred  page  of  his  heart. 

Mrs.  Mapl'^son  buried  her  face  in  her  handkerchief,  while 
every  now  and  then  a  shudder  ran  through  her  frame. 

"She  never  kissed  me  again;  she  never  called  her  'Will'  again; 
she  never  knew  me  again,"  Colonel  Mapleson  went  on,  in  a  hol 
low  tone,  "for  she  took  a  cold  that  verv  day  and  was  raving  with 
delirium  when  I  returned.  She  grew  worse  and  worse,  and  in 
two  weeks  was — dead.  My  bright,  beautiful  wife,  whom  I 
loved  better  than  my  own  life,  for  whom  I  was  willing  to  give 
np  fortune,  position,  everything  that  I  had  hitherto  held  most 
dear,  lay  a  lifeless  thing  of  clay — gone  from  me  like  a  breath, 
leaving  me  broken-hearted  and  with  my  reason  nearly  de 
throned." 

It  was  truly  pitiable  to  witness  the  man's  emotion  and  his 
struggle  for  self-control. 

His  frame  shook  like  a  tree  swayed  "by  the  wind;  his  lips  and 
his  voice  trembled  so  that  it  was  difficult  for  him  to  articulate, 
whilo  his  broad  chest  heaved  convulsively  with  the  anguished 
throbbing  of  his  heart.  , 

"Well,"  he  said,  after  a  while,  "I  must  not  dwell  upon  that 
Bad  time,  and  I  scarcely  know  how  I  lived  during  the  week  that 
followed.  We  buried  her  in  a  quiet  spot  beneath  a  mammoth 
tree,  not  a  stone's  throw  from  our  home,  where  she  used  often 
to  sit  on  a  warm  summer's  day  with  some  dainty  bit  of  work  in 
her  hands.  You  have  seen  her  grave,  you  s:iy,"  he  interposed, 
turning  to  Geoffrey.  "Does  it  look  sailly  neglected  and  over 
grown?  Is  the  stone  defaced  or  the  name  obliterated  by  the 
storms  of  so  many  years?" 

"No,  sir,"  his  son    answered,  looking   up  with  moist  eyes,  for 


284  THE  COLONEL' 8  STORY  CONCLUDED. 

he  had  been  deeply  moved  by  bis  father's  story  and  bis  evident 
suffering  in  telling  it;  "the  fence  that  surrounds  the  little  lot 
Las  fallen  somewhat,  to  decay,  but  a  luxuriant  growth  of  vines 
bides  all  that.  Tlio  stone  still  stands  upright  in  its  place  and 
the  name  'Annie'  is  as  distinct  to-day  as  it  ever  was." 

"I  havo  never  been  there  since  we  broke  up  our  home,"  re 
sumed  the  colonel,  with  a  heavy  sigh.  "The  girl,  Margaret, 
who  had  served  my  wife  most  faithfully  ever  since  our  marriage, 
married,  as  you  know  already,  a  man  by  the  name  of  Henly. 
They  were  going  to  California  to  live,  and  she  said  she  would 
take  care  of  my  boy  until  I  conld  make  some  better  provision 
for  him.  I  knew  not  what  else  I  conld  do,  so  I  accepted  her 
offer.  I  broke  up  my  home,  gave  away  what  I  could  not  soil 
of  the  furniture,  and  we  left  the  place,  the  Henlys  taking  you, 
Geoffrey,  to  California,  where  I  planned  to  visit  you  when  I 
conld.  I  returned  to  my  interests  in  the  other  mines  where  I 
tried  to  drown  my  grief  by  working  as  a  common  min^r.  But 
time,  instead  of  healing  my  wound,  only  made  it  rankle  worse. 
I  grew  bitter  and  antagonistic;  the  happiness  of  others  mad 
dened  me;  the  fortune  1  had  before  been  so  willing  to  release, 
for  the  sake  of  her  I  loved,  I  now  vowed  I  would,  keep  out  of 
spite  for  my  loss.  I  resolved  to  keep  my  marriage  a  secret.  I 
would  keep  all  my  wealth,  and  as  my  boy  grew  older  he  should 
Lave  the  benefit  of  it,  even  though  I  should  never  be  able  to  ac 
knowledge  him  as  mine.  But  I  was  restless,  I  conld  not  re 
main  long  in  one  place  at  a  time,  and  I  wandered  from  place  to 
place  trying  to  drown  my  sorrow  in  excitement.  Four  times, 
after  an  interval  of  six  months  between  each,  I  visited  the  Hen- 
lys.  My  child  was  growing  finely  and  doing  well  eveiy  way, 
so  I  decided  to  let  him  remain  where  he  was  until  he  should  be 
old  enough  to  go  to  school;  then  something  impelled  me  to 
come  back  to  my  home.  I  put  my  affairs  all  into  the  hands  of 
an  agent,  and  six  years  from  the  time  of  my  leaving  Vue  de 
1'Eau  found  me  here  again  once  more  assuming  the  duties  of  ita 
master.  A  few  weeks  later  I  met  my  cousin,  Miss  Everet. 
Estelle,"  with  a  glance  toward  hia  wife,  "do  you  mind  my  tell 
ing  it  all?" 

"No,"  was  the  brief,  low  response. 

1  "She  appeared  very  glad  to  renew  the  acquaintance  of  former 
years,  although  no  allusion  to  our  uncle's  will  was  at  that  time 
made  by  either  of  us. 

"She  had  grown  very  beautiful,  bad  been  much  in  society, 
and  possessed  charming  manners.  One  day,  during  a  call 
upon  her,  she  playfully  remarked  that  it  was  her  birthday 
and  she  had  not  been  the  recipient  of  a  single  gift. 

"  'You  should  have  mentioned  that  fact  before,'  I  returned, 
"but  perhaps  it  is  not  too  late  even  yet,  for  some  remembrance 
of  the  day.  Tell  the  number  of  your  years  and  you  shall  have 
R  rose  for  every  one.' 


THE  COLONELS  STOUT  CONCLUDED.  28S 

"I  knew  well  enough,  but  I  would  not  appear  to  know. 

"  'Twenty-four,'  she  replied,  and  her  face  clouded  as  she  »aid  it. 

"I  could  tell  well  enough  what  she  was  thinking  of  ;  in  one 
year  more  she  would  l>«  twenty-five,  then  Robert  Dale  could 
claim  her  fortune,  and  a  life  of  poverty  would  lie  before  her. 

"Instantly  the  thought  atone  in  my  mind,  'Why  has  my  cousin 
never  married?'  I  dii  not  believe  that  she  had  remained  single 
out  of  any  regard  for  me,  or  from  any  desire  to  fulfill  the  con 
ditions  of  our  uncle's  will;  indeed,  ahe  had  expressed  herself  so 
indignantly  at  the  time  of  its  reading,  that  I  imagined  she  would 
always  be  adverse  to  any  such  union.  Still,  it  seemed  strange 
that  a  young  lady  so  attractive,  and  eligible  in  every  way,  should 
have  remained  single,  when  1  did  not  doubt,  indeed  I  knew,  she 
might  have  chosen  from  among  a  half-dozen  men  whose  for 
tunes  were  even  larger  than  her  own. 

"  'Perhaps,'  I  thought,  'she  has  become  bitter  and  antago 
nistic — is  bound  to  enjoy  her  money  until  the  last  moment,  and 
then  pass  it  over  to  me.'  I  did  not  want  it — the  thought  was 
very  disagreeable  to  me.  Perhaps  ?he  loved  a  poor  man,  and 
was  intending  to  make  the  most  of  her  time;  perhaps,  I 
reasoned,  she  has  been  saving  her  income  all  these  years,  and 
will  marry  when  her  twenty-five  years  are  past;  maybe  she  is 
even  \\aitiug  to  tire  me  out  and  get  the  whole  for  that  purpose. 
But  there  appeared  to  be  no  one  of  whom  she  was  fond.  I 
noticed  that  she  treated  all  gentlemen  alike,  even  receiving  my 
visits  and  attentions  with  no  more  pleasure  than  those  of 
others. 

"  'Why  not  marry  her  if  she  will  have  yon?'  was  the  thought 
that  shot  through  iny  mind,  ns  I  started  out  to  get  the  roses  I 
Lad  promised  her.  'I  will  not  give  up  my  fortune  to  that  miser 
without  a  struggle.  I  might  a»k  her  to  be  my  wife,  and  then,  if 
she  refuses,  I  have  fulfilled  the  conditions  of  my  uncle's  will.' 
But,  at  first,  a  feeling  of  horror  came  over  me.  at  the  thought  of 
giving  to  another  the  place  which  my  Annie  had  filled,  and  I 
angrily  repudiated  it.  I  avoided  my  cousin's  society  for  a  time 
after  that,  almost  hating  myself  for  contemplating  for  a  moment 
a  marriage  with  her  for  mercenary  reasons.  But  when  she 
eluded  me  gently  for  my  neglect,  seeming  to  feel  actual  pain  on 
account  of  it,  those  questions  returned  to  me  with  even  greater 
force  than  before,  and  I  resolved  to  try  to  learn  her  mind  upon 
the  subject. 

"I  knew  that  I  should  lead  a  wretched  existence  in  this  great 
house,  witl*  no  woman  to  brighten  it  with  her  presence,  and, 
perhaps,  after  a  time,  if  she  should  consent,  I  might  confess  the 
great  temptation  and  sorrow  that  had  come  to  me,  and  perhaps 
she  would  pardon  it,  and  be  willing  to  receive  my  boy  and  give 
him  a  mother's  care.  As  soon  as  I  reached  this  conclusion,  I 
made  no  delay  about  putting  my  fate  to  the  test. 

"We  were  one  day  talking  about  my  estate  here,  and  of  some 


286  THE  COLONEL'S  STORY  CONCLUDED. 

improvements  I  was  intending  to  make,  when  I  suddenly 
said : 

"  'Estelle,  Vue  de  1'Eau  has  no  mistress.  I  wonder  if  you 
could  regard  the  conditions  of  Uncle  J;il>ez's  will  any  more  fa 
vorably  now  than  you  did  at  the  time  of  his  death?' 

'•She  flushed  hotly,  and  shot  a  quick,  keen  glance  at  me. 

"  'I  believe  we  were  mutually  antagonistic  to  it,'  she  replied. 

"  'People  grow  wiser  as  they  grow  older,'  I  remarked;  tiien 
boldly  asked:  'Will  you  marry  me  now,  Estelle?' 

"  'Do  you  think  it  right  for  people  who  do  not  love  each  other 
to  marry?'  she  questioned. 

"  'Is  that  equivulent  to  telling  me  that  yon  do  not  love  me?'  I 
inquired.  'I  will  be  frank  with  you,  my  cousin,'  I  continued. 
'I  confess  that  1  have  not  the  affection  for  you  that  young  lovers 
generally  rave  about;  but  I  admire  you;  you  are  beautiful,  cul 
tured,  talented,  and  I  am  free  to  own  that  yon  are  far  more  at 
tractive  to  me  now,  than  you  were  in  those  old  days  wheu  wa 
•were  both  so  bitter  and  indignant.  If  no  one  else  has  won  your 
Leart,  I  will  do  my  best  to  make  your  future  pleasant.  We  have 
only  one  more  year  of  grace;  we  must  consider  this  subject  and 
reach  some  decision  before  it  expires;  so  what  say  you,  cousin 
mine?' 

".She  thought  a  moment,  then  lifted  her  head  with  a  resolute 
air,  and  said: 

"  'Yes,  I  will  marry  you,  William,  if  you  are  willing  to  take 
me  just  as  I  am,  without  very  much  heart  to  give  you,  but  wil 
ling  to  do  my  best  to  make  you  a  good  wife;  I  believe  it  will  be 
the  wiser  course  for  both  of  us.' 

"Thus  our  engagement  was  made,  and  we  were  married  the  fol 
lowing  month.  I  have  endeavored  to  keep  mv  promise  to  my 
"wife  to  make  her  life  a  pleasant  one,  and  until  now,"  with  a  sor 
rowful  glance  at  the  bowed  head  and  shivering  form  of  hin  proud 
wife,  "I  believe  that  we  have  been  comparatively  happv  in  our 
domestic  relations;  at  least,  I  have  known  more  of  quiet  content 
than  I  thought  it  would  ever  be  possible  for  me  to  attain.  I  have 
kept  this  secret — the  only  one  I  ever  kept  from  her — until  this 
hour.  I  did  not  have  the  cournge  to  confess  it  after  our  mar 
riage — I  kept  putting  it 'off  until  after  my  son.  Everet.  was  born, 
a  little  less  than  a  year  after  our  marriage,  and  when  I  saw 
how  my  wife's  heart  was  hound  up  in  him,  I  could  not  bring  my 
self  to  it. 

"Later,  when  I  went  to  see  how  my  boy  was  thriving,  intend 
ing  to  make  some  other  pi-ovision  for  him,  when  I  learned  of 
that  tragedy  in  the  Henley  family  and  that  both  the  man  and 
boy  had  disappeared,  I  was  almost  glad  I  never  had  spoken  of 
that  sim  episode  in  my  life,  although  I  spared  no  expense  to  try 
to  trace  my  child. 

"Estelle,  this  is.  my  confession;  you  have  heard  the  whole, 
Bud  know  the  extent  of  my  deception.  So  many  years  had 


THE  COLONEL'S  STORY  CONCLUDED.  287 

passed  that  I  had  grown  to  believe  that  it  would  never  be  un- 
vailed  until  that  day  when  all  secrets  are  to  be  made  known. 
This  young  man,  whom  1  introduced  to  you  as  Mr.  Huntress' 
son,  is  my  sou,  whom  I  believed  lost  to  me  forever;  but  he  was 
led,  most  strangely  led  to  the  discovery  of  his  parentage,  and 
came  hither  to-night  to  claim  acknowledgment.  By  the  way, 
Geoffrey,  I  never  knew  either  when  or  how  I  lost  that  portion  of 
the  knight-templar's  cross  you  found.  I  missed  it  shortly 
after  my  last  visit  to  Santa  Fe,  but  never  expected  to  recover  it 
again.  You  shall  keep  it,  my  boy;  it  has  always  been  regarded 
as  a  pocket-piece  for  luck;  may  it  ever  prove  to  be  such  to  you. 
My  only  reason  for  having  the  Henlys'  letters  simply  directed 
to  'Lock  Box  43'  was  to  prevent  my  identity  being  discovered. 
I  could  not  give  them  my  real  name,  and  did  not  like  letters  ad 
dressed  to  William  Dale  to  come  to  the  same  box,  so  I  just  gave 
the  number. 

"About  my  visit  to  Saratoga  last  summer,"  the  colonel  contin 
ued,  after  a  short  pause,  "I  have  to  confess  to  something  that  I 
never  experienced  before,  either  in  times  of  peace  or  war,  a  feel 
ing  of  cowardice.  I  was  on  my  way  to  Newport  to  join  Mrs. 
Mapleson,  and  took  a  notion  to  run  up  to  the  Springs,  which  I 
hud  not  visited  for  years.  On  the  train  from  Albany  to  Sarato 
ga  an  elderly  gentleman  accosted  me,  expressing  great  pleasure 
at  meeting  me  once  more,  and  inquired  most  kindly  after  my 
•wife.  He  was  a  man  whom  I  had  known  during  that  short  hap 
py  year  that  I  had  spent  in  that  mining  village,  and  who  had 
known  me  only  as  Captain  William  Dale.  He,  too,  was  going 
to  Saratoga  and  begged  the  privilege  of  accompanying  me  to  the 
hotel  where  I  intended  stopping.  At  first  I  hardly  knew  what 
to  do.  I  could  not  bear  to  undeceive  him  regarding  my  name, 
for  it  would  have  required  explanations  too  painful  to  make  to  a 
etranger,  so  I  finally  thought  it  would  not  matter  if  I  registered 
for  once  in  my  assumed  name;  therefore  I  wrote  it  and  named 
my  place  of  residence  as  Santa  Fe,  since  he  knew  that  I  used  to 
do  business  there.  A  strange  fate  I  thought  it,  which  threw  you 
in  my  way  under  just  those  circumstances.  You  remember  how  I 
took  you  for  Everet,  at  first;  but  I  was  terribly  shocked  when  it 
dawned  upon  me  who  you  were,  and  1  fully  intended,  at  the 
time,  to  keep  my  appointment  with  you  for  that  afternoon.  But 
•when  I  came  to  think  it  all  over  quietly,  to  realize  all  the  revela 
tions  that  must  be  made  to  my  wife,  my  son,  to  yourself,  I  was 
nearly  crazed;  I  knew  from  your  appearance  that  you  had  beeu 
woll  cared  for,  that  life  was  bright  and  prosperous  with  you, 
and  it  seemed  as  if  I  could  not  rake  over  all  tho  past,  and  in  the 
midst  of  my  frenzy  I  packed  my  valise  and  left  on  the  noou 
train.  I  have  bitterly  regretted  it  since,  for  my  heart  longed 
after  its  own;  I  have  been  ashamed  that  I,  a  Mapleson,  should 
have  turned  my  back  and  fled  from  any  circumstances.  I  have 
repented  of  my  folly,  too,  because  a  duty  has  fallen  upou  me, 


288  MRS.  MAPLESON'S  CONFESSION. 

since  then,  -winch  made  it  imperative  that  I  should  find  you;  but 
of  this  I  will  speak  again  later. 

"What  is  it,  Esfelle?"  he  asked,  as  ft  heavy,  shuddering  sigh 
from  his  wife  smote  his  ear;  "has  my  story  been  too  much  for 
you?  I  fear  it  has.  Perhaps  I  have  beeu  selfish  and  thoughtless 
iu  bringing  you  here  before  strangers  to  listen  to  all  this,  but  it 
had  to  be  told,  and  this  interview  must  have  taken  place  be 
tween  us  all.  Forgive  me  for  wounding  you,  and  let  me  take 
you  to  your  room;  perhaps,  though,  you  never  will  forgive  me 
for  the  deception  which  I  have  practiced  upon  you." 

He  went  up  to  her  and  laid  his  hand  upon  her  shoulder  with 
more  of  tenderness  than  he  was  in  the  habit  of  manifesting  to 
ward  the  proud,  handsome  woman.  But  she  put  him  from  her 
•with  a  passionate  gesture,  iu  which,  however,  there  was  a  pa 
thetic  air  of  appeal. 

SUe  arose  and  stood  before  him,  her  face  almost  convulsed 
•with  agony. 

"Oh!"  she  cried,  wringing  her  hands,  "if  you  had  only  told  me 
all  this  when  you  asked  me  to  marry  you;  or,  if  I  had  been  true 
to  my  womanhood,  how  much  we  both  might  have  saved  each 
other!  Forgive  you  for  your  deception?  oh!  William,  I  have 
beeu  tenfold  more  guilty  than  you." 

CHAPTER  XLV. 

MRS.  MAPLESON'S  CONFESSION. 

Colonel  Mapleson  regarded  his  wife  as  if  he  thought  she  had 
suddenly  taken  leave  of  her  senses. 

'August  Huntress'  heart  wus  stirred  with  compassion  for  the 
beautiful  and  imperious  woman,  for  lie  realized  full  well  the 
trial  that  lay  before  her,  and  could  understand  how  humiliating 
it  must  be  to  have  her  sin  find  her  out  at  this  late  day,  when  she 
had  believed  it  buried  forever. 

All  these  long  years  she,  too,  had  treasured  her  seciet,  believ 
ing  that  no  one  save  the  strange  physician  who  had  attended 
her  at  the  birth  of  her  child,  and  those  two  who  had  adopted 
it,  knew  anything  of  that  episode  iu  her  life,  and  that  she  had 
so  successfully  concealed  her  identity  at  the  time  that  it  could 
never  be  discovered. 

"What  can  you  mean,  Estelle?"  demanded  Colonel  Mapleson, 
as  soon  as  he  could  collect  himself  sufficiently  to  speak. 

Then,  as  he  remembered  how  she  had  greeted  Mr.  Huntress, 
how  overcome  she  had  been  at  sight  of  him,  he  glanced  sharply 
towaAl  him  and  knew  instantly,  from  the  look  of  sympathy  on 
his  fac«,  that  he  must  be  in  some  way  associated  with  that  myste 
rious  deception  of  which  his  wife  had  spoken. 

"I  mean,"  the  wretched  woman  returned,  in  a  voice  of  despair, 
•while  she  sank  weekly  back  into  her  chair,  "that  the  secret 
which  you  have  kept  concealed  from  me  during  all  our  marriad 


•  MRS.  MAPLESON' S  CONFESSION.  289 

life  cannot  compare  with  wLat  I  have  withheld  from  you;  von 
Simply  hid  the  fact  of  an  earlier  marriage  and  the  existence  of  a 
son,  while  I  committed  a  monstrous  crime  to  conceal  a  like 
secret  from  you." 

"Good  heavens,  Estelle!"  cried  her  husband,  starting  back 
from  her  with  a  look  of  horror  at  her  appalling  statement.  "I 
cannot  believe  it,"  and  he,  too,  sank  into  the  nearest  cliair,  over 
come  with  consternation,  and  actually  trembling  with  dread  of 
what  was  to  follow. 

Again  he  looked  suspiciously  at  August  Huntress,  while  a 
hundred  thoughts  Hashed  through  his  brain. 

He  fully  believed  that  he  must  have  been  connected  in  some 
way  witSi  the  crime  of  which  his  wife  spon.e. 

Had  she  married  him  clandestinely,  during  those  early  years 
while  he  had  been  away  in  the  mines  of  New  Mexico,  and  then 
deserted  him  to  wed  the  other  half  of  Jabez  Mapleson's  fortune 
and  preserve  her  own?  Had  they  met  and  loved  each  other  in 
their  youth?  Was  that  the  reason  why  Estelle  had  been  so 
indifferent  to  all  other  suitors;  why  she  had  told  him  she  had 
"not  much  heart  to  give  him,"  when  he  had  asked  her  to  marry 
him?  She  had  called  him  "August  Damon"  when  brought  face 
to  face  with  him,  in  a  tone  which  betrayed  that  she  had  every 
thing  to  fear  from  his  presence  there,  and  she  confirmed  this  by 
fainting  at  his  feet. 

But  there  were  only  sorrow  and  compassion  written  on  Mr. 
Huntress*  face  as  he  witnessed  the  proud  woman's  humiliation; 
there  was  no  vestige  of  any  latent  affection,  no  anger  or  harsh 
ness,  such  as  there  would  have  been  if  she  had  wronged  him  or 
played  him  false;  there  was  no  look,  save  one  of  regret  and 
sympathy,  as  for  one  who,  he  knew,  had  committed  some  great 
sin  tli.it  had  at  last  found  her  out  and  must  be  atoned  for. 

"What  does  she  mean?  Do  you  know?"  Colonel  Mapleson 
asked,  huskily,  as  his  visitor — perchance  feeling  the  magnetism 
of  his  glance — turned  his  eyes  from  the  bowed  form  oi  Mrs. 
Mapleson  to  the  mystified  husband. 

"I — know  something,  but  not  all,"  ho  answered,  reluctantly. 

"Then  you  have  met  my  wife  before?" 

"On<;e.  and  only  once,  as  I  have  already  told  yon." 

"Where — under  what  circumstances?"  demanded  the  colonel, 
with  considerable  excitement. 

"Pardon  me,"  returned  Mr.  Huntress,  with  dignity,  as  it 
suddenly  occurred  to  him  what  his  host's  suspicions  might  bo. 
|'l  prefer  that  Mrs.  Mapleson  should  herself  tell  you  that,  since 
it  is  more  her  secret  than  mine.  Perhaps,  however,  it  would  be 
better  for  Geoffrey  and  mn  to  retire  to  some  other  room  while 
she  speuks  with  you  alone,"  and  he  half  arose  as  he  spoke. 

But  Mrs.  Mapleson  threw  out  one  clenched,  jeweled  hand,  witk 
an  imperative  gesture,  to  check  him. 

"No,"  ahe  cried,  a  quiver  of  agouy  in  her  voice;  "if  any  one 


290  ffRS.  MAPLESON'S  CONFESSION. 

has  a  right  to  hear  my  confession,  my  story,  you  have,"  and  nt 
this,  Geoffrey  turned  a  startled  face  upon  the  mau  whom  lie  htul 
always  regarded  as  honorable  and  irreproachable — one  of  na 
ture's  noblemen. 

"Oil,  the  curse  of  gold!"  the  unhappy  woman  went  on,  wildly. 
"What  will  it  not  tempt  one  to  do?  The  love  of  it  blunts  natu 
ral  affection  and  honor,  and  warps  the  reason.  It  leads  one  to 
deceive,  to  scheme,  and  to  sin  for  the  possession  of  it.  What  blind 
fools  men  and  women  are  to  sacrifice  so  much — love,  a  life-time 
of  innocence,  parity,  and  happiness,  for  the  sake  of  a  little  paltry 

fellow  dust!  If  I  could  but  live  over  my  life,  how  gladly  would 
endure  poverty,  and  toil,  a&d  self-denial,  to  secure  a  quiet  con 
science  and  a  heart  free  from  its  burden  of  sin  and  dread!  Oh, 
such  a  life  as  I  have  led  is  but  a  miserable  failure  from  begin 
ning  to  end!" 

Colonel  Mapleson  began  to  be  alarmed  at  his  wife's  increasing 
excitement,  while  her  remorse  and  her  ominous  allusions  drove 
him  almost  distracted. 

He  arose,  and,  going  to  her  side,  took  her  trembling  hands  in 
his,  saying: 

"Estelle,  if  you  cannot  calm  yourself,  I  shall  insist  upon  your 
going  to  your  room;  yon  will  surely  be  ill  if  you  yield  so  to 
nervous  excitement.  Whatever  this  matter  is  that  seems  to 
weigh  so  heavily  upon  your  mind,  I  can  wait  until  you  are  in  a 
better  state  lor  its  recital.  Come,  let  me  take  you  up  stairs," 
and  he  gently  tried  to  force  her  to  rise. 

But  she  wrenched  her  hands  from  his  clasp. 

"No,  no,"  she  cried,  with  a  shiver;  "I  will  not  carry  this 
dr*>adiul  burden  on  my  heart  another  hour!  For  more  than, 
twenty  years  I  have  borne  the  brand  of  an  inhuman  monster  on 
my  soul,  and  I  wonder  that  it  has  not  transformed  me  into  some 
thing  so  repulsive  and  loathsome  that  every  one  would  shrink 
from  me  in  fear  and  disgust.  I  have  often  looked  at  myself  with 
amazement  to  think  it  was  possible  for  any  one  to  conceal  so 
effectually  the  corruption  and  wretchedness  and  duplicity  of 
o/ie's  nature.  I  believe  I  have  realized,  as  no  one  else  ever  did, 
what  the  Saviour  meant  by  a  'whited  sepulcher  full  of  dead 
men's  bones.'  William!"  turning  upon  her  husband,  with  a 
vild,  glittering  eye,  and  searching  his  face  with  a  glance  of  piti 
ful  appeal,  "I  expect  that  you  will  despise  and  hate  me,  that  our 
son  will  loathe  me,  when  you  learn  what  I  have  to  tell  you." 

Tli>e  scene  was  becoming  very  painful,  and  Mr.  Huntress,  pity 
ing  her  from  the  depths  of  his  heart,  arose  and  walked  out  of  her 
night,  feeling  that  he  conhl  not  look  upon  her  agony,  while  Geof 
frey  sat  spell-bound,  dreading  the  impending  disclosure  more 
than  he  could  express. 

Colonel  Mapleson,  feeling  as  if  he  must  do  something  to  calm 
her  excitement,  went  to  a  closet,  poured  out  a  glass  of  wine,  and 
brought  it  to  her. 


MRS.  MAPLESON'S  CONFESSION.  291 

"Estelle,  driuk  tins,"  he  said,  kindly,  as  he  put  it  to  her  lips, 
though  his  hand  shook  so  that  he  could  not  hold  the  glass 
steadily. 

She  hastily  swallowed  it,  and  then  pushed  him  from  her;  it 
seemed  as  if  she  could  not  bear  him  near  her  while  her  sin  was 
uuconfessed — until  he  should  hear  and  judge  her,  and  she  could 
know  what  her  doom  was  to  be. 

For  more  than  twenty  years  he  had  been  her  husband.  He 
had  al\\ays  been  kind  and  chivalrous  in  his  treatment  of  her. 
At  first  she  had  been  proud  of  him  1'or  his  honor  and  manliness, 
then  her  pride  had  gradually  developed  into  a  strong,  deep 
affection,  which,  however,  she  had  never  allowed  herself  to 

Earade  before  him,  because  of  his  unvarying  reticence  toward 
er.  She  had  tried  to  be  a  good  wife  to  him,  to  win  his  respect 
by  her  faithfulness  to  duty,  her  devotion  as  a  mother,  and  his 
admiration  by  preserving  her  beauty  and  shining  a  star  in  the 
society  they  frequented;  and  now,  after  succeeding  for  so  long  a 
time,  it  drove  her  nearly  crazy  to  think  that  perhaps  the  con 
fession  of  her  early  folly  would  undo  all  this  and  breed  con 
tempt  for  her,  or  worse — his  pity. 

His  own  deception  seemed  very  trivial  compared  with  hers, 
for  a  cruel  fate  alone  had  prevented  him  from  acknowledging 
his  wife  and  child  whom  he  had  fondly  loved  and  would  have 
cherished  as  long  as  they  had  been  spared  to  him,  while  she 
had  deliberately  planned  to  abandon  her  delicate  babe  and  cast 
it  unloved  upon  the  care  of  strangers. 

The  wine  which  she  had  drank,  however,  served  to  steady  her 
nerves,  and  to  give  her  strength  for  the  trial  before  her,  and 
after  a  f»-w  minutes  she  raised  her  white,  drawn  face,  saying: 

"Sit  down,  all  of  you,  for  my  story  is  not  a  short  one,  though 
for  all  our  sakes  I  will  make  it  as  byief  as  possible. 

"You  will  remember,  William,  that  after  I  came  into  possession 
of  my  half  of  Uncle  Jabez's  fortune,  I  went  abroad.  I  had  al 
ways  had  an  intense  longing  to  see  Europe,  and  when  the  means 
to  do  so  were  at  my  dispos.il,  I  resolved  to  gratify  that  desire. 
You  know,  too,  that  as  a  family  we  had  always  been  poor.  Ifc 
hiid  been  a  continual  struggle  with  us  to  secure  even  the  neces 
saries  of  life,  and  the  battle  with  poverty  had  been  a  most  bitter 
one  to  me.  Now,  I  was  bound  to  get  the  most  I  could  out  of 
life,  to  make  up  for  the  deprivations  of  my  youth.  I  indignantly 
refused  to  marry  as  niy  uncle  desired,  for  I,  as  well  as  you,  con 
sidered  that  he  had  no  right  to  make  any  such  stipulations  in 
disposing  of  his  money;  but  I  was  young,  I  had  seven  years  i>efore 
me  in  which  to  enjoy  my  wealth,  and  I  said  I  would  spend  every 
dollar  of  my  income  in  being  happy  and  making  up  to  my  family 
for  the  hardships  of  previous  years.  So  I  settled  a  comfortable 
income  on  my  father  and  mother,  and  then,  taking  my  sister 
Nellie  for  a  couipanion,  I  sailed  for  Europe  to  gratify  my  taste 
for  travel  and  sight-seeing.  Wo  both  spoke  French  and  Ger« 


292  MRS.  MAPLESOXS  CONZEHS10N. 

man  fluently,  for  we  had  been  faithful  students,  and  fitted  our 
selves  for  teaching;  botli  were  self-reliant  and  courageous  in 
spite  of  our  youth — our  conflict  with  our  unfavorable  surround 
ings  had  made  nn  BO — therefore  we  felt  Competent  to  travel  by 
ourselves  without  a  chaperon,  who,  we  felt,  would  hamper  our 
movements.  Some  of  the  time  we  had  a  guide,  but  in  England, 
France,  and  Germany  we  were  able  to  go  about  quite  inde 
pendently.  It  was  perhaps  a  daring  thing  to  do,  l>ufc  Nellie 
"Was  somewhat  older  than  I,  and  very  self-possessed  and  dignified 
in  her  bearing,  and  we  never  met  with  the  shghest  incon 
venience  from  being  without  an  escort.  We  had  a  very  pleas 
ant  time  together;  we  had  plenty  of  money,  and  did  not  need 
to  stint  ourselves;  Nell  loved  art,  and  I  music,  so  for  a  year  we 
put  ourselves  under  the  best  of  masters,  and  gave  ourselves  up 
to  these  accomplishments,  and  had  our  fill.  But  I  am  getting 
somewhat  ahead  of  my  story. 

"While  we  were  in  London,  a  few  months  after  reaching 
England,  we  met  a  literary  gentlemen,  a  Mr.  Charles  Southconrt, 
\vho  paid  me  considerable  attention,  and  to  whom  I  was  very 
•utrongly  attracted.  We  met  often,  too,  upon  the  Continent,  for 
He,  also,  was  traveling  in  search  of  material  for  his  writings, 
Hnd  our  routes  frequently  crossed  each  other.  Finally,  during 
t«ay  second  year  abroad,  he  confessed  his  affection  for  me,  and 
asked  me  to  marry  him.  He  was  brilliant,  handsome,  talented, 
but  poor.  Had  he  been  rich  I  would  uot  have  hesitated  a  mo 
ment,  for  I  loved  him;  but  I  knew,  far  too  well,  what  poverty 
\vas  to  be  willing  to  relinquish  my  fortune  and  the  handsome  in 
come  it  brought  me,  the  luxuries  and  pleasures  it  yielded  me, 
to  say  nothing  of  depriving  my  parents  and  sister  of  the  eotv.- 
forts  and  advantages  they  were  enjoying,  and  I  refused  him. 
He  knew  that  I  returned  his  affection — he  had  not  dreamed  of 
being  rejected — and  demanded  the  reason.  I  told  him  frankly. 
He  then  informed  me  that  all  pecuniary  difficulty  could  soon  be 
removed,  for  there  was  a  prospect  of  his  soon  receiving  a  re 
sponsible  appointment  somewhere  in  the  far  East,  which  won  Id 
secure  him  an  ample  income  which,  with  what  he  should  realize 
from  his  writings,  would  enaUo  him  to  provide  for  the  com 
fortable  support  of  my  family,  and  secure  to  me  every  luxury 
•which  my  own  fortune  was  then  giving  me.  Would  I  become 
his  wife  if  he  secured  this  appointment?  he  asked.  I  told  him 
yes,  and  I  believe  if  it  had  uot  been  for  depriving  my  delicate 
and  aged  parents  and  sister  of  the  comforts  they  were  enjoying 
— if  I  had  only  had  myself  to  consider,  I  should  have  willingly 
thrown  up  my  fortune,  and  become  bis  wife,  whether  he  secured 
the  appointment  or  not. 

"Full  of  hope  at  having  won  my  consent,  Charlie  returned  at 
or.ce  to  London — we  were  at  that  time  in  Rome — to  bend  all  his 
•Lergies  to  secure  his  coveted  position.  Two  months  later, 
Nellie  and  I  returned  to  Paris,  where  we  were  again  joined  by 


JtfTJ.S.  XAPLESON'S  CONFESSION.  293 

Mr.  Bonthcourt,  who  was  jubilant,  for  lie  said  be  was  snre  of  his 
appointment,  ami  lie  showed  me  a  letter,  from  a  person  high  ia 
authority,  which  seemed  to  promise  it  beyond  a  doubt. 

"About  this  time  we  received  a  letter  from  home  telling  us 
that  papa  was  falling;  the  physician  feared  the  worst,  and  we 
were  told  to  hold  ourselves  in  readiness  to  return  at  once  if  lie 
should  continue  to  grow  worse.  Mamma  wrote  that  she  could 
not  bear  to  shorten  our  pleasure,  but  she  knew  that  our  own 
hearts  would  bid  us  come  if  they  found  that  he  could  not  rally; 
that  was,  however,  merely  a  warning  to  prepare  us;  she  would 
\vrite  again  if  there  was  any  change  for  the  worse. 

"I    told   Nellie    that    we    must   go    home   at  once;  something 
might  happen  to  make    papa's   disease   terminate  suddenly,  and 
he  would  die  before  we  could    possibly  reach  him,  if  we  should 
•wait  to  hear  from  mamma  again.     Nellie  agreed  to  this,  but  Mr. 
Sonthcourt  was  very  unhappy  over    our  decision;  he   could  not 
bear  the  thought  of  separation;  he  said  something    might  occur 
to  make  it  final,  unless  I  should  marry  him  at  once  and  give  him 
the  right  to  call  me  his  wife  before  I  left;  in  that  case  he  would 
let  me  go  and  feel  sure    of   me.     At.  first   I  would    not  listen  to 
this  proposal.       I  knew  but    too  well    that   if   my  marriage  was 
discovered,  the  income  from  mv  half  of  Uncle  Jabex's  property 
would  be  stopped,  and  my  sick  and  dying  father  be  depiived  of 
everything    th«*t    had    uo\v   become   so   necessary  to    him.     But 
Charlie  was  so  snre  that  he  should    get  his  appointment,  when 
he    would    at   once    settle    one- third   of    his   income    upon    my 
parents;  he  was  so  hopeful    over   his  book,  so  importunate,  and 
distressed    at    the    thought    of    my    leaving,    while    Nellie  also 
thought  there  could   La   no   rink,  that   my  scruples  and  better 
judgment  were  overcome,  and    I  yielded,  upon  one  condition  — 
that  our  marriage  be  kept  a   profound  secret   until   he  actually 
secured    his    position.     He    agreed    to    this,  because  he  aa!d  he 
knew  I  should    scarcely  reach    home  before  he  would  have  the 
•wherewithal    to    enable    me    to   make    over  my  share    of  Uncle 
Jabez's  fortune  to    my    cousin,    without  missing  it,  and  so  we 
\cere  privately  married  in  Paris  just  before  leaving  for  London. 
"Upon  our  arrival  there,   we  found  that  a  steamer  had  just 
Bailed,  and  no  other  would  leave  for  three  or  four  days.     The 
very  next  morning  we  received  another  letter    from    home  say 
ing  that  papa  had  rallied  and  was  so  much  improved,  mamma 
fegretted  she  had  written  BO  disconragingly  before,  and   told   ns 
Dot  to  think  of  returning  until  we   felt  entirely  ready  to  do  so. 
I  was  so  happy  in    my  new    relations    that  I  was    only  too  glad 
of  tiiis  respite,  for  the  prospect  of    a    separation    from    my  hus 
band    was    us    painful    to    uie  as  to  him.     Three   short,  blissful 
•weeks    after    that    we    spent    together,  and    then    there    came  a 
startling  cable  message,   bidding    Nellie    and  me  to  return  iii- 
ataiuly." 

Mrs.  Mapleson  paused  and  struggled  with  herself  at  this  point; 


294  MRS.  MAPLESON'S  CONFESSION. 

evidently  her  task  was  a  bitter  one,  and  almost  more  than  she 
was  able  to  accomplish. 

"I  cannot  tell  yon  of  that  parting,"  she  finally  resumed;  "it 
was  almost  like  parting  soul  from  body,  and  I  shall  never  for 
get  the  look  that  was  on  my  Charlie's  face  as  he  stood  en  the 
pier  at  Liverpool  and  watched  the  vessel  that  bore  us  away  out 
of  sight. 

"Wo  reached  home  just  in  season  to  be  recognized  by 
papa,  to  receive  his  dying  blessing  and  his  bidding  to  care 
tenderly  for  mamma,  and  then  he  was  gone.  Our  mother  was 
utterly  prostrated  by  his  death  and  the  watching  during  the 
long  weeks  of  his  illness,  and  for  mouths  she,  too,  seemed 
to  be  upon  the  borders  of  the  grave. 

"Meantime,  I  heard  regularly  from  Charlie,  and  every  letter 
told  me  of  some  delay  regarding  the  decision  upon  his  appoint 
ment,  but  it  was  sure  to  be  all  right  in  the  end,  he  said,  and  he 
would  let  mo  know  the  very  moment  it  was  decided. 

"You  can  easily  realize  that  those  months  were  anxious  ones 
to  me,  for  I  feared,  as  the  guilty  always  fear,  detection,  while, 
too,  the  deception  I  was  practicing  was  inexpressibly  galling  to 
me.  Mamma  rallied  after  a  time,  and  for  a  little  while  we 
thought  she  would  recover,  but  the  improvement  was  not  last 
ing,  and  it  soon  became  evident  that  consumption  had  fastened 
upon  her. 

"It  was  nearly  five  months  since  my  return,  and  I  began  to  be 
very  unhappy,  for  there  was  still  no  favorable  news  from  my 
husband.  One  day  I  was  sitting  alone  in  my  room  writing  to 
him,  and  feeling  very  much  depressed,  when  Nellie  suddenly 
burst  in  upon  me,  her  face  all  aglow,  and  bearing  a  telegram  iu 
her  hand. 

"  'Estelle,  what  will  yon  give  me  for  good  news  at  last?'  she 
cried,  gayly,  and  holding  the  telegram  above  her  head,  out  of  my 
reach. 

f>  'I  will  give  you  a  hundred  dollars,  Nell,  if  it  is  good  news,' 
I  answered,  springing  up  to  take  it  from  her,  my  heart  beating 
high  with  hope,  for  I  felt  almost  sure  that  the  message  could 
contain  nothing  else. 

"I  tore  it  open  with  trembling  eagerness,  only  to  find  these 
words  within: 

"  'Lost;  appointment  given  to  a  man  named  Wilmot.  Will  write 
particulars.' 

"It  was  a  dreadful  blow!  Nellie  had  read  the  message  over 
my  shoulder,  and  for  a  moment  we  were  both  so  paralyzed  that 
we  could  only  look  into  each  other's  face  in  dumb  agcny.  Then 
I  remembered  nothing  more  for  a  week,  while  for  a  month  I  did 
not  leave  my  bed.  During  this  time  Charlie  wrote,  bitterly  re 
gretting  that  he  had  sent  me  the  message,  but  saying  he  had 
promised  to  let  me  know  as  soon  as  the  matter  was  decided,  and 


MRS.  MAPLESON '8  STORY  CONCLUDED.  295 

on  the  impulse  of  the  moment,  his  judgment  blunted  by  his 
own  disappointment,  he  had  cabled  what  afterward  he  realized 
must  have  been  a  cruel  blow  to  me.  He  said  that  money  had 
bought  up  the  position,  while  he  had  been  so  certain  that  the 
influence  at  work  for  him  was  stronger  than  any  amount  of 
bribery  could  be.  'Still,'  he  cheerfully  concluded,  'he  would 
try  for  something  else,  and  do  his  utmost  to  relieve  me  frcm  my 
embarrassing  position.' 

"All  this,  however,  was  poor  consolation  for  me:  I  could  not 
confess  my  marriage  and  go  to  him  a  beggar  in  his  poverty, 
even  though  my  heart  longed  for  him  with  all  the  strength  of 
its  deep  and  lasting  love.  My  mother  failing,  slowly,  but  sure 
ly,  was  dependent  upon  me  for  every  comfort  that  she  pos 
sessed,  and  besides  this  1  could  not  make  up  my  mind  to  put 
the  ocean  between  us  when  I  knew  I  should  never  see  her  ^gaia 
if  I  did.  My  husband  had  spoken  of  my  'embarrassing  posi 
tion,'  but  he  did  not  dream  one-half  the  truth,  for  I  had  con 
cealed  from  him  the  fact  that  I  was  soon  to  become  a  mother." 

CHAPTER  XLVI. 

MBS.  MAPLESON'S  STORY  CONCLUDED. 

"Estelle!"  exclaimed  Colonel  Mapleson,  in  a  shocked,  yet 
sympathetic  tone,  "  of  all  the  romances  that  I  have  ever  read  or 
known,  this  is  the  strangest!" 

"Yes,"  Mrs.  Mapleson  continued,  "I  had  persistently  re 
frained  from  telling  my  husband  my  secret,  and  Nellie  alone 
knew  it.  At  first  I  only  meant  to  reserve  it  until  he  should 
come  for  me,  as  he  was  to  do  immediately  upon  securing  his 
position.  I  was  sure  that,  if  he  knew,  he  would  instantly  de 
mand  ray  return  to  him,  and  an  open  acknowledgment  of  our 
union,  and  so  I  kept  putting  it  off,  until  now,  that  I  had  re 
ceived  that  fatal  news,  it  was  too  late.  I  could  not  send  for  him 
to  come  to  me,  for  then  the  secret  must  come  out  with  all  its 
direful  results,  while  I  knew  he  could  not  take  care  of  me 
in  a  strange  country  when  he  was  so  unsuccessful  in  his  own.  I 
•was  almost  insane  for  a  time,  for  I  saw  no  way  out  of  my  diffi 
culties.  My  mother  was  so  feeble  that  she  demanded  tlie  con 
stant  attendance  of  a  nurse,  and  tlie  most  expensive  luxuries,  to 
prolong  her  life.  Whern  would  the  money  come  from  to  furnish 
all  these,  if  it,  should  become  known  that  I  had  violated  the 
conditions  of  my  uncle's  will?  Where,  too,  would  the  money 
come  to  meet  my  own  expenses  of  maternity,  and  to  care  for  the 
little  one  that  would  soon  be  mine?  All  too  late  I  realized  the 
terrible  mistake  that  I  had  made  in  yielding  to  Charlie's  impor 
tunities,  although  I  loved  my  husband  most  tenderly. 

"  'What  shdll  I  do?'  I  cried,  in  despair,  to  my  sister,  one  day, 
when  all  these  facts,  and  the  terrible  fate  awaiting  their  revela 
tion,  had  been  reviewed  for  the  hundredth  time. 


296  MRS.   MAPLESON'S  STORY  CONCLUDED. 

"  'I'll  tell  you  what  I've  thought  of  Estelle,'  Nellie  answered, 
gravely.  'It  seems  a  dreadful  thing  to  do — heartless,  dishonor 
able,  and  everything  else  tliat  is  bad — and  yet  I  see  no  alterna 
tive.  We  must  manage  some  way  to  keep  your  money — at  least, 
BO  long  fts  mamma  lives:  we  must  not  let  her  suffer,  though  I'd 
•work  my  fingers  to  the  bone  ratlier  tlutu  do  such  a  thing  for  my 
own  sake.  William  Maplesou  does  not  need  your  fortune;  he 
Las  enough  already.  Robert  Dale,  that  miserable  old  miser, 
would  only  'hide  it  in  a  napkin,'  if  he  were  to  get  it.  So  wo  may 
as  well  have  the  benefit  of  it,  at  least  until  Charlie  is  able  to  d« 
something  for  you.  Now  for  my  plan.  You  have  had  a  long 
illness;  you  are  drooping,  failing;  yon  ueed,  must  have,  a 
change.  Mamma  is  quite  comfortable  just  now,  and,  with  the 
nurse  to  attend  her,  does  not  really  need  any  one  else.  But  that 
she  may  not  feel  lonely  without  us,  we  will  send  for  her  oUl 
frien-1,  Miss  Willford,  to  come  for  a  long  visit,  and  then  we  will 
go  off  on  a  trip  for  your  benefit.' 

"  'Oh,  Nell,  will  you  go  with  me?'*  I  sobbed,  in  a  burst  of  re 
lief  and  gratitude, 

"  'Indeed  I  shall.  You  did  not  suppose  I  would  send  you 
off  alone,  I  hope,'  she  answered,  and  then  she  further  unfold 
ed  her  plan. 

"We  would  pretend  that  we  both  needed  a  change,  after  the 
confinement  of  the  last  few  months.  No  one  would  then  sus 
pect  any  secret-  reason  for  our  going.  We  would  travel  a  while, 
keeping  as  secluded  as  possible,  aad  finally  go  to  some  large 
city — Boston  we  finally  decided  upon,  as  we  had  never  been 
there,  and  knew  not  a  soul  living  there — where  we  would 
remain  until  after  the  birth  of  my  child.  Then  wo  would  give 
it  into  the  care  of  some  one,  paying  well  for  it,  until  my  hus 
band  was  in  a  position  to  claim  me;  and  then,  as  soon  as  I  had 
regained  my  strength,  we  would  return  home,  and  no  one  would 
be  the  wiser  for  what  had  occurred. 

"This  plan  gave  me  new  courage.  All  my  former  energy 
returned,  and  1  immediately  began  my  arrangements  for  my 
proposed  trip.  Mamma  and  her  nurse  both  favored  it,  and  Mies 
Willford  was  sent  for.  I  wrote  my  husband  of  our  plans — or  as 
much  regarding  them  as  we  told  anybody — telling  him  how  to 
address  his  letters;  and  then  Nellie  and  I  went  a'.vay,  without 
exciting  the  suspicion  of  any  one  regarding  our  real  object.  We 
•went  first  to  Philadelphia,  where  we  remained  in  secluded  lodg 
ings  for  a  few  weeks,  giving  our  names  as  'Mrs.  M'irston  and 
maid,  Nellie  Durham' — Nellie  preferring  to  act  in  that  capacity. 
Then  we  proceeded  to  New  York,  where  we  stopped  a  while, 
finally  going  on  to  Boston,  where  my  little  girl  was  born." 

Geoffrey  turned  abr.uptly  around  and  faced  Mr.  Huntress  as 
Mrs.  Mapleson  reached  this  point  in  her  story.  Never  until  that 
moment  had  lie  suspected  that  Gladys  was  not  his  kind  friend's 
own  daughter.  But  he  kuew  that  he  had  formerly  resided  in 


MRS.  MAPLESON'S  STORY  CONCLUDED.  297 

Boston.  He  remembered  that  Mrs.  Mapleson  had  addressed 
him  as  August  Damon,  and  ho\v  she  had  been  overcome  upon 
meeting  hi  in.  He  remembered,  too,  how,  when  he  had  proposed 
leaving  the  room  while  she  made  her  confession  to  her  husband, 
she  had  sitid  ''if  any  one  had  a  right  to  hear  her  story,  he  had," 
and  putting  all  these  things  together,  it  flashed  upon  him  that 
Gladys  might  have  been  that  little  girl  who  was  born,  under 
such  peculiar  circumstances,  in  Boston. 

Mr.  Huntress  met  his  inquiring  glance,  and  smiled  faintly;  but 
be  was  very  pale  and  sorrowful. 

It  had  not  been  an  easy  matter  for  him  to  sit  there  and  listen 
to  that  story,  and  to  have  it  revealed  that  Gladys  was  not  hia 
very  own.  He  had  always  hoped  to  be  able  to  keep  the  secret 
of  her  adoption. 

"Is  it  true,  Uncle  August?"  Geoffrey  questioned. 

Mr.  Huntress  nodded  gravely. 

"How  very,  very  strange!"  said  the  young  man,  with  a  per 
plexed  face. 

Then  his  countenance  suddenly  brightened! 

He  leaned  eagerly  forward,  laid  his  hand  on  Mr.  Huntress' 
knee,  and  whispered,  excitedly: 

"Then  he — Eve  ret  Mapleson,  is  her  half-brother,  and  that  mar 
riage  teas  nothing  but  an  illegal  farce  I  " 

"That  is  true — I  have  been  thinking  of  that  very  thing,"  re 
turned  Mr.  Huntress,  grasping  the  hand  upon  his  knee  v^ith 
cordial  sympathy,  "and  though  it  has  been  very  hard  to  have 
the  fact  revealed,  that  our  dear  girl  was  not  quite  our  own,  yet 
JEJ  j°y  at  having  that  great  trouble  so  easily  wiped  out  of  ex 
istence,  counteracts  all  the  pain." 

"What  is  it?"  Mrs.  Mapleson  asked,  wondering  at  their  .eager 
•whispering  and  excited  manner. 

"1  will  tell  you  later,  madaine,"  Mr.  Huntress  replied.  "Par 
don  the  interruption,  and  pray  go  on." 

"William,  the  worst  of  my  story  is  yet  to  come,"  Mrs. 
Mapleson  resumed,  turning  with  a  pathetic  look  to  her  husband. 

He  reached  forth  one  hand,  and  laid  it  affectionately  upon 
bers. 

"Do  not  think  me  so  hard,  Estelle,"  he  said,  in  a  low,  kind 
tone;  "I  do  not  forget  the  'beam'  that  was  in  my  own  eye,  and 
I  have  no  right  to  criticise  the  'mote'  in  yours,  especially  when 
you  have  been  so  great  a  sufferer,  and  your  hands  were  so  tied 
by  your  dependent  mother  and  sister.  Your  heart  was  all 
right — you  would  never  have  concealed  anything  but  for  the 
foroe  of  circumstances." 

"Oh,  wait;  you  have  yet  to  learn  that  my  heart  was  not  all 
right,"  she  moaned,  dropping  her  head  upon  her  hai:d.  "My 
baby  was  a  beautiful  child — I  realized  that  the  first  time  I  looked 
upon  her,  but  I  did  not  dare  to  let  niy  love  go  out  toward  her, 
for  I  knew  that  I  must  giro  her  up,  at  least  for  a  time.  And  yet, 


298  MRS.  MAPLESON'S  STORY  CONCLUDED. 

what  to  do  with  her  was  a  very  trying  question.  At  first  I 
thought  of  putting  her  into  some  institution,  requiring  some 
plbdge  that  she  should  not  be  given  away  within  a  specified 
time.  But  I  found  I  could  not  do  this,  so  I  advertised  for  soma 
one  to  adopt  her,  promising  to  give  five  hundred  dollars  with 
the  child.  I  received  numberless  letters  in  reply,  but  only  one 
out  of  them  all  really  pleased  me,  and  this  was  signed  'August 
and  Alice  Damon.'  " 

"Ah!  now  I  understand,"  interposed  Colonel Mapleson,  glanc 
ing  quickly  at  Mr.  Huntress,  and  looking  intensely  relieved. 

Then  his  eyes  wandered  to  Geoffrey. 

"How  wonderful!  that  those  two  should  have  found  a  homo  in 
the  same  family!"  he  murmured. 

"I  appointed  a  meeting  with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Damon,"  his  wife 
went  on.  "They  came,  and  at  once  I  knew  that  they  were  the 
very  people  to  whom  I  would  confide  my  little  girl,  in  preference 
to  all  others.  But  you  gave  me  an  assumed  name,"  she  said, 
pausing,  and  turning  to  Mr.  Huntress. 

"Not  an  assumed  name,  madame,  but  only  a  parb  of  my  real 
name,  which  is  August  Damon  Huntress,"  that  gentleman  ex 
plained. 

"Why  did  you  withhold  your  surname  from  me?" 

"Madame,  I  knew  well  enough  that  your  name  was  not  Mars- 
ton.  I  felt  sure  that  no  mother  would  give  away  her  child,  aa 
you  wei'e  doing,  and  reveal  her  identity.  On  the  other  hand,  I 
did  not  wish  the  identity  of  the  child  preserved.  I  did  not  in 
tend  that  you  should  have  any  advantage  over  me.  If  I  took 
her,  I  meant  her  to  be  mine  wholly,  without  running  any  risk  of 
having  her  taken  from  me,  or  of  ever  learning  that  she  had  been 
abandoned  to  the  care  of  strangers.  Consequently,  I  gave  you 
the  name  of  Daraon." 

"Well,"  said  Mrs,  Mapleson,  with  a  sigh,  "as  it  happened,  it 
made  no  difference,  but  if  I  had  suspected  it  at  the  time,  you 
•would  not  have  had  my  child,  for  I  meant  to  keep  track  of  her. 
I  meant  to  have  her  again  just  as  soon  as  my  husband  and  I 
were  reunited." 

"But  you  told  me,"  began  Mr.  Huntress,  with  an  amazed, 
horrified  face 

"I  know  I  did,"  the  lady  interrupted.  "I  promised  you  that  I 
would  never  trouble  you — woiild  never  even  ask  to  see  her.  I 
pretended  to  give  her  to  you  unreservedly,  although,  you  re 
member,  I  would  not  subscribe  to  any  legal  form  of  adoption.  I 
allowed  you  and  others  to  think  me  a  heartless,  unnatural  mon 
ster  for  the  sake  of  gaining  for  my  little  one  a  good  home  and 
loving  care  until  I  could  see  my  way  clear  to  demand  her  resto 
ration.  It  was  dishonorable — it  was  a  wretched  deception,  but 
it  was  all  a  part  of  that  terrible  secret  that  had  to  be  guarded  at 
whatever  cost.  But  I  had  to  pay  dearly  for  it,  as  you  will  soon 
realize. 


MRS.  IfAPLESON'S  STORY  CONCLUDED.  299 

"My  sister  and  I  left  Boston,  both  of  us  in  better  spirits  than 
we  had  been  since  leaving  England,  for  we  believed  that  every 
thing  had  been  so  successfully  concealed  there  was  not  the 
slightest  danger  of  discovery.  We  came  back  to  our  home  to 
find  mamma  niore  comfortable  than  when  we  left  her,  having 
had  a  bright,  cheerful  visit  with  her  old  friend,  while  she  ap 
peared  delighted  with  the  improvement  which  our  trip  had 
made  in  us.  But  she  lived  only  one  short  mouth  after  that. 
She  took  a  sudden  cold,  which  brought  on  a  hemorrhage  that 
terminated  her  life  in  a  few  hours. 

"More  than  this,"  Mrs.  Mapleson  went  on,  hurriedly,  while 
she  pressed  her  clasped  hands  over  her  heart,  as  if  to  hold  in 
check  its  painful  throbbiugs,  while  she  related  the  saddest 
event  of  her  whole  life,  "on  the  very  day  that  she  was  buried  a 
bulky  package  was  brought  to  me,  postmarked  'London.'  It 
contained  considerable  manuscript,  a  Bank  of  England  note  for 
one  hundred  and  fifty  pounds,  my  marriage  certificate,  anil — a 
letter.  The  letter  told  me — oh,  William!"  she  burst  forth  in  a 
quavering  voice,  "you  knew  that  your  Annie  must  die.  You 
had  to  face  the  dread  fact  before  it  really  came,  and  you  were 
somewhat  prepared  for  it;  but  I — I  had  no  warning;  the  shock 
fell  like  a  thunderbolt  to  crush  me!  My  Charlie  was  dead  long 
before  I  knew  it.  He  had  been  in  his  grave  nearly  a  fortnight 
•when  the  terrible  news  came  to  me.  The  letter  was  from  a 
friend  of  my  husband,  and  stated  that  he  had  met  with  an  acci 
dent  that  must  result  fatally,  having  been — crushed — in  a  falling 
elevator. " 

The  poor  woman  appeared  hai'dly  capable  of  going  on.  It 
seemea  as  if  all  the  agony  of  that  dreadful  time  was  revived  by 
this  recital. 

'•He  had  only  a  few  hours  to  live,"  she  went  on,  at  last,  "and, 
though  he  could  not  hold  a  pen  to  write  me  one  line,  he  made 
up  that  package  with  his  own  hands,  telling  his  frienfl  that  it 
was  to  be  forwarded  to  Miss  Estelle  Everet.  You  see,  he  kept 
my  secret  even  while  dying,  and  would  not  send  me  one  of  the 
fond  messages  of  which  I  know  his  heart  must  have  been  full, 
for  fear  of  betraying  me.  He  said  that  I  would  take  charge  of 
the  publishing  of  the  manuscript,  if  I  thought  best  to  give  it  to 
the  world,  for  the  expenses  of  which  he  inclosed  the  Bank  of 
England  note.  That,  however,  was  only  a  blind,  for  the  manu 
script  was  in  such  a  erode  state  it  could  not  be  published,  and 
he  had  simply  taken  that  way  to  sai.d  me,  without  exciting  sus 
picion,  the  only  existing  proof  of  our  marriage,  and  what  little 
money  he  possessed. 

"My  fond,  faithful  Charlie!  He  deserved  a  better  fate  and  a 
better  wife.  Of  course,  after  that,  there  was  no  fear  of  discov 
ery,  even  though  I  mourned  with  the  bitterness  of  despair  over 
mv  lost  hopes.  My  mother's  death  was  excuse  enough  for  my 
grief,  though  people  said  I  laid  it  to  heart  more  than  they 


300  MRS.  MAPLESON'S  STORY  CONCLUDED. 

imagined  I  could.  For  a  long  time  I  felt  as  if  life  waa  little 
better  than  u  mockery.  Mine  certainly  thus  far  Lad  been  a 
miserable  failure.  My  husband  dead,  my  child  lost  to  me 
forever — for,  of  course,  I  could  never  claim  her  uow — what  was 
there  in  the  world  for  me  to  live  for? 

"After  a  time  1  grew  bitter  and  reckless.  I  told  myself  if  I 
could  not  have  the  blessings  that  usually  crown  u  woman's  life, 
I  would  make  the  most  of  the  fortune  that  1  still  possessed;  I 
would  travel — 1  would  see  the  world — I  would  not  deny  myself 
a  single  wish  or  whim.  My  sister  and  I  started  off  again.  We 
•went  to  England  tirst,  where  1  fount!  liiy  husband's  grave,  but 
did  not  dare  even  to  mark  it  with  uny  expression  of  my  love. 
We  went  to  Egypt  and  Palestine,  joining  a  party  of  travelers 
thither,  and  alter  spending  another  year  in  roving  we  came  back 
once  more  to  America. 

"Three  months  after  our  return,  Nellie,  too,  sickened  and 
died,  and  1  was  left  utterly  aloue  in  the  world — alone  with  tuy 
ill-gotten  wealth  and  splendor.  What  was  my  monev  to  me 
then?  — like  the  apples  of  Sodom;  and  yet  1  experienced  a  grim 
sort  of  satisfaction  that  the  income  of  Uncle  Jabez's  propertr 
was  still  mine,  that  I  had  outwitted  the  world  and  the  lawyers 
or  executors  of  Uncle  Jabez's  will  by  my  art  and  cunning.  But 
only  a  little  more  than  a  year  remained  before  I  should  be 
twenty-live,  when,  if  my  cousin  and  I  were  both  unmarried, 
Robert  Dale  would  have  our  fortune.  I  grew  rebellious  at  the 
thought.  I  had  nothing  but  my  money  to  live  for  now.  and  my 
money  I  wanted  to  keep.  I  had  sacrificed  truth,  principle,  and 
all  the  noblest  elements  of  my  woman's  nature  for  it,  and  I  was 
willing  to  make  almost  any  sacrifice  now  to  retain  it. 

"Just  about  this  time  you  returned,  William,  and,"  a  burning 
blush  now  suffused  the  fnce  of  the  proud  woman,  "I  welcomed 
you  with  secret  joy,  and  instantly  made  up  my  mind  to  marry 
yon  if  you  would  have  me.  I  made  myself  agreeable  to  you 
with  that  sole  object  in  view.  You  know  how  well  I  succeeded, 
although  you  did  not  dream  that  I  was  scheming  for  that,  and 
I  did  not  experience  a  qualm,  since  I  did  not  deceive  you  re 
garding  the  state  of  my  heart  toward  you;  my  acceptance  of  you 
was  as  frank  as  your  proposal  for  my  hand.  Neither  of  us 
professed  any  love  for  the  other:  we  simply  decided  that  ifc 
would  be  a  wise  union,  and  that  we  could  be  a  very  com 
fortable  couple.  A  strange,  heartless  arrangement,  I  suppose 
the  world  would  have  said  could  it  have  read  our  motives,  but 
it  would  have  seemed  even  more  strange  if  the  experience  of  our 
lives  had  been  revealed.  I  was  hardened  and  reckless  then,  for 
I  felt  that  fate  had  used  me  very  badly.  I  have  not  deserved 
the  quiet,  peaceful  years — quiet  and  peaceful  but  for  the  stings 
of  conscience — that  have  been  my  lot  since.  I  have  been  grow 
ing  happier  during  all  that  time,  growing  to " 

She   broke   off  suddenly,  flashing   a  quick,  pained  glance  at 


AN  UNEXPECTED  RETURN.  301 

her   husband,   while   the   blood   again    mounted   to   her   brow. 

"During  nil  these  years,"  she  continued,  presently,  "I  have 
never  learned  anything  regarding  inj  child,  bave  once.  Last 
summer,  alter  Everet  left  mo  at  Viewport,  to  come  home,  1  was 
comparatively  alune  there  for  a  few  days,  my  friends,  whom  I 
was  expecting  to  meet,  not  having  arrived,  and  a  sudden  im 
pulse  seized  me  to  go  to  Boston  and  try  to  learn  something 
about  my  daughter.  I  had  always  kept  the  card  you  gave  me, 
Mr.  Huntress,  and  I  imagined  if  you  were  still  iu  that  city  I 
could  trace  you  through  the  directory. 

"Upon  uiy  arrival  I  stepped  into  a  drug  store  on  Washington 
street  nnd  asked  for  tiie  directory,  to  begin  my  search.  You  cau 
imagine  something  of  my  amazement  and  consternation  when  I 
found  mvself  face  to  face  with  the  physician  who  had  attended 
me  at  the  birth  of  my  child.  Ho  also  recognized  me.  although. 
I  tried  to  deceive  him  regarding  my  identity.  But  he  insisted 
that  he  knew  me,  and  finding  denial  useless,  I  appealed  to  him 
for  information  regarding  my  child.  He  said  he  knew  the  maa 
•well  who  had  adopted  her — that  he  hail  been  for  years  the  fam 
ily  physician;  but  he  would  notgive  me  his  name  or  address." 

"That  must  have  been  Dr.  Turner,"  said  Mr.  Huntress,  look 
ing  astonished;  "but  how  could  he  have  known  that  we  adopted 
the  child?  We  never  told  him  that  she  was  not  our  own." 

"True;  but  he  was  called  to  attend  her  for  some  slight  ail' 
ment  only  a  few  days  after  you  look  her,  and  recognized  her;  he 
would  not,  however,  violate  your  confidence  uor  his  sense  of 
honor  by  telling  me  anything  by  which  1  could  trace  you  or  the 
child.  He  comforted  me  gi'eatly,  though,  by  assuring  me  that 
she  was  a  beautiful  and  talented  young  lady;  that  she  had  re 
ceived  every  advantage,  and  was  surrounded  by  the  fondest  lova 
and  care.  I  remember  now  that  I  have  seen  her,"  Mrs.  Maple- 
son  said,  with  starting  tears,  "and  my  heart  yearns  strongly  for 
her  as  1  think  of  it.  I  saw  her  at  Yale  when  my  son  graduated; 
she  was  with  you,"  turning  to  Geoffrey,  "and  she  is  truly  a- 
lovely  girl.  Mr.  Huntress,  you  have  held  your  trust  sacred,  and 
I  am  deeply  grateful  to  you." 


CHAPTER  XLV1I. 

AN  UNEXPECTED   BETUBN. 


"Surely,  Estelle,  your  lot  has  been  a  hard  one,"  Colonel  Ma- 
plesou  gravely  remarked,  after  an  oppressive  silence;  "your 
sufferings  have  been  keener  than  mine,  and  I  can  only  wonder 
bow  you  have  concealed  them  so  successfully  during  all  these 
years." 

"I  promised  that  I  would  try  to  make  you  a  good  wife,  and  I 
have  striven  to  be  agreeable  and  companionable  to  you.  I  knew 
if  you  suspected  that  I  had  any  secret  sorrow,  you  would  imag- 


302  AN  UNEXPECTED  RETURN. 

ine  it  was  because  I  was  unhappy  with  you,  and  so  I  have  done 
my  best  to  appear  co-.iteuted  with  my  life." 

"Done  your  best  to  appear  contented,"  repeated  Colonel 
Mapleson,  with  some  bitterness,  but  iu  a  tone  that  reached  her 
alone. 

His  wife  looked  up  quickly,  and  a  bright  flush  dyed  her 
face  again. 

She  reached  forward,  and  laid  her  hand  upon  his  arm. 
"I  have  been  content,  William,"  she  said,  under  her  breath; 
"it  was  only  a  little  while    that  I  had    to  strive  —while  my  grief 
•was  so  keen  and   fresh.     But   let  us  not    taik  of   this  now,1'  she 
concluded,  with  a  glance  toward  their  visitors. 

Colonel  Muplesou  sighed;  then  he  said,  with  an  anxious  look 
at  her  face: 

•'Eatelle,  I  am  afraid  all  this  excitement  will  prove  too  much 
for  you,  and  you  liad  better  go  to  rest;  but,  first,  come  aud 
speak  to  my  son,  will  you?" 

His  tone  was  pleading,  and  his  unusual  gentleness  touched 
her;  it  told  her  that  he  felt  more  of  sympathy  than  blame  for 
the  errors  of  her  past.  She  arose  with  a  sense  of  relief,  such  as 
she  had  not  experienced  during  all  her  married  life.  Her 
burdensome  secret — that  terrible  barrier  that  had  always  stood 
between  her  aud  her  husband — was  at  last  all  swept  away.  She 
could  not  tell  whether  it  would  create  au  impassable  gulf 
between  them  or  not,  but  at  least  she  had  nothing  uow  to 
conceal. 

She  went  to  Geoffrey  with  him,  prepared  to  welcome  him  as 
Ler  husband's  first-born,  with  all  the  cordiality  of  which  she 
•was  mistress. 

"My  boy,"  said  the  colonel,  holding  out  his  hand  to  him,  "can 
you  own  your  father  after  all  that  you  have  heard? — can  you  for 
give  the  deception  of  my  early  years — my  moral  cowardice  in 
turning  my  back  upon  you  at  Saratoga — and  let  me  have  the 
satisfaction  of  repairing,  as  far  as  may  be,  the  hardships  of  your 
youth?  My  debt  of  gratitude  to  your  other  father'' — with  a 
glance  at  Mr.  Huntress — "I  can  never  repay." 

Geoffrej'  warmly  grasped  that  extended  hand. 

"You  have  made  my  heart  more  glad  than  I  can  tell  you,  sir," 
he  said.  "I  can  forget — I  can  overlook  everything,  now  that  I 
know  my  mother  was  your  loved  and  honored  wife.  I  came 
Lere  fearing  the  worst — fearing  that  a  dreadful  stigma  rested 
upon  my  birth — that  I  was  not  entitled  to  an  honorable 
name." 

"You  are  entitled  to  much  more  than  that,  Geoffrey,"  Colonel 
Mapleson  returned,  smiling,  although  his  lips  trembled  and  his 
eyes  were  full  of  tears;  "there  is  a  handsome  fortune  awaiting 
jour  disposal." 

"A  fortune!"  said  the  young  man,  wonderingly. 

"Yes,  inherited  through  your  mother  from  that  very  same  old 


AN  UNEXPECTED  RETURN.  303 

miser — Robert  Dale — of  whom  you  have  beard  so  much  this 
evening." 

"How  can  that  bo?"  Geoffrey  asked,  while  Mrs.  Maplesun 
uttered  an  exclamation  of  surprise. 

"You  shall  know  very  soon;  but  first  shake  hands  with  my 
wife,"  his  father  responded,  presenting  Mrs.  Mapleson. 

"You  are,  indeed,  very  mnch  like  my  son,"  she  murmured,  as 
she  gave  him  her  hand;  "and,  believe  me,"  she  added,  with 
touching  humility,  "I  am  rejoiced  to  have  you  restored  to  my 
husband,  even  at  the  expense  of  the  trying  confessions  and 
revelations  of  this  evening." 

Geoffrey  respectfully  raised  her  hand  to  his  lips,  aud  the  act 
conveyed,  far  better  thuu  words  could  have  dune,  the  sympathy 
he  felt  for  the  suffering  which  she  had  endured. 

She  then  bade  Mr.  Huntress  good-night,  after  which  her  hus 
band  led  her  from  the  room, 

He  accompanied  her  to  her  own  door. 

"Good-night,  E-stelle,"  he  said,  gently,  "I  hope  you  will  go 
directly  to  bed  and  try  to  sleep." 

She  turned  suddenly — that  proud,  imperious  woman,  who, 
for  more  t'mu  twenty  years,  had  repressed  every  sign  of  affection 
for  him — and  threw  herself  upon  his  breast. 

"Oh!  "William,  say  that  you  do  not  quite  hate  me  for  what  I 
have  told  you  to-night!"  she  cried,  in  an  agonized  tone. 

Her  husband  looked  astonished  at  her  act;  then  his  face  soft 
ened,  his  eyes  lighted  with  sudden  joy. 

"Why,  my  wife?  1  believe  you  almost  love  me  after  all!  Do 
you,  Estelle?"  he  eagerly  questioned;  "do  I  possess  any  more  of 
your  heart  now  thau  I  did  when  you  married  me,  or  has  it  been 
a  continual  struggle  all  along  to  be  a  good  wife  to  me?" 

She  was  sobbing  like  a  child,  now;  the  haughty,  indomitable 
spirit  that  had  upheld  her  so  long  was  subdued  at  lust. 

"I  have  not  dared  to  let  you  see  how  mnch  of  my  heart  you 
have  won;  yon  know  you  told  me  you  did  not  entertain  a  lover's 
affection  for  me,  and  I  would  not  force  mine  upon  you,"  she 
confessed,  witli  her  fnce  still  hidden  upon  his  breast. 

He  fr  hied  lii«  arms  more  closely  about  her. 

"And  /  have  imagined  that  you  were  holding  me  at  arms' 
length  during  all  our  life,"  he  said,  laying  his  cheek  softly  ngaiust 
her  still  glossy  hair.  "Estelle,  we  will  be  lovers  all  the  rest  of 
our  lives,  for,  my  wife,  you  have  become  very,  very  dear  to  me — 
I  did  not  realize  low  ilnar  until  now.  We  will  not  look  back 
ward  any  more,  but  ior\v:ud;  we  have  both  erred  greatly  in  the 
past,  and  it  would  ill  become  either  of  us  to  criticise  the  other. 
Tell  me,  shall  wo  drop  i\n~  vail  of  charity  over  it  all,  and  begin 
to  live  our  real  life  from  this  hour?" 

For  tht*  first,  time  in  hor  life,  she  put  her  anus  about  his  neck, 
and  voluntarily  laid  lit  r  lips  against  his  cheek. 

"I  do  not  deserve;  this,  William,"  she  said,  humbly,   "but  you 


804  AN  UNEXPECTED  RETURN. 

have   made   me  happier   than   1   ever   expected   to   be   again." 
He  returned  her  caress  with  great  tenderness,  then  said: 
"I   must    not   koep   you  standing    here,  dear,  nor  our  guests 
•waiting  below;  but  I  will  come  to  you  again  later." 

He  opened  the  door  for  her  to  pass  in,  then  closed  it,  and  re 
turned  to  his  visitors,  brushing  aside  some  truant  tears  as  he 
•went. 

His  face,  however,  lighted  with  pleasure  as  he  again  entered 
the  library,  and  looked  into  Geoffrey's  noble,  manly  face,  and 
realized  that  he  was  really  the  son  of  the  beautiful  young  wife 
whom  lie  so  loved  years  ago. 

But  the  young  man  himself  was  very  grave. 
He  felt  that  he  stood  in  an  exceedingly  delicate  position. 
He    had    come    to    Colonel    Mapleson,   believing  that  he  had 
wronged  his  mother,  and  willfully  abandoned  him  when  a  child; 
be  had  meant  to  denounce  hiin  for  it,  and  reveal  also  the  villainy 
of  which  his  other  son  had  been  guilty. 

But  he  had  found  a  father  ready  and  eager  to  welcome  him, 
ready  to  acknowledge  the  wife  of  his  youth,  and  to  give  his  son 
the  place  that  rightfully  belonged  to  him;  and  now  it  seemed 
almost  cruel  to  expose  the  wrong  of  which  his  half-brother  had 
been  guilty.  He  could  not  endure  the  thought  of  coming  be 
tween  the  two  in  any  way;  of  destroying  the  confidence  of  the 
father  in  the  son. 

Something  of  this  Geoffrey  and  Mr.  Huntress  had  been  con 
sidering  during  Colonel  Mapleson's  absence  from  the  room. 
They  had  about  decided  to  say  nothing  of  the  affair  of  the  in 
terrupted  marriage,  until  they  had  seen  Everet,  and  acquainted 
him  with  the  facts  which  that  night  had  revealed.  Perhaps, 
they  could  arrange  to  hush  up  the  matter  altogether,  if  the 
young  man  proved  to  be  amicably  inclined  or  reasonable;  at  all 
events,  they  had  concluded  not  to  mention  the  affair  that  night 
— to,  at  least,  give  it  a  little  more  thought  first.  In  explaining 
about  the  broken  cross,  GooSfrey  had  simply  said  that  they  had 
Been  the  other  half  in  Everet's  possession,  and  that  he  knew 
nothing  of  their  visit  to  Vue  de  1'Eau. 

It  seemed  as  if  a  great  weight  had  been  lifted  from  Colonel 
Mapleson's  heart  when  he  returned. 

He  drew  a  chair  near  his  guests,  and  began  at  once  to  enter 
more  into  the  details  of  the  past.  He  gave  them  a  full  history 
of  his  eccentric  relative,  Robert  Dale;  told  of  his  long-concealed 
fortune,  when  and  how  it  had  been  discovered,  together  with 
the  will  which  bequeathed  the  whole  of  it  to  Geoffrey's  mother. 
"This,  of  course,  now  becomes  yours,"  he  concluded,  turning 
to  the  young  man,  with  a  smile.  "Quite  a  fine  property,  it  is, 
too,  amounting,with  the  accumulated  interest,  to  upward  of  one 
hundred  and  fifty  thousand  dollars.  Besides  this,  yon  will 
inherit  one-half  of  what  I  possess,  the  other  half  going  to 
Everet " 


AN  UNEXPECTED  RETURN.  305 

"I  could  not  take  any  tiling  from  this  estate,  sir,"  Geoffrey 
Said,  suddenly  growing  crimson. 

"Why  not?"  questioned  his  father. 

"Because  you  married  contrary  to  the  conditions  of  your 
uncle's  will,  so,  in  that  case,  I  do  not  feel  that  I  have  any  real 
right  to  any  of  it.  If  your  marriage  had  been  discovered,  you 
•would  have  had  to  forfeit  all  to  your  cousin,  Miss  Everet. " 

"lou  are  very  conscientious,"  replied  Colonel  Mapleson, 
gravely. 

Then  he  suddenly  looked  up,  with  a  wise  smile. 

"It  has  not  occurred  to  you,  I  perceive,"  he  added,  "that 
you  could  claim  every  dollar  that  Mrs.  Mapleson  and  I  pos 
sess.  We  both  violated  the  conditions  of  that  will;  conse 
quently,  our  fortunes  rightly  belonged  to  Robert  Dale,  and 
you,  being  his  only  heir,  would  inherit  it  all." 

Geoffrey  looked  amazed  at  this.  Such  a  thought  had  not 
occurred  to  him;  but  now  he  could  not  fail  to  see  the  force  of 
his  father's  argument. 

"I  do  not  want  it — I  could  not  take  it;  I  shall  have  more 
than  enough  from  what  will  come  to  me  from  my  mother,"  he 
said. 

"There  are  few  people  in  the  world  who  would  not  take  all 
they  could  get,"  replied  Colonel  Mapleson,  feeling  a  certain 
pride  in  this  noble  renunciation  of  his  son.  "But,  taking 
everything  into  consideration,  it  seems  to  me  that  mutters  are 
somewhat  complicated  with  us.  I  suppose  Mrs  Mapleson's 
daughter — your  adopted  child,  Mr,  Huntress — will  come  in  for 
her  share  of  her  mother's  property." 

August  Huntress  flushed. 

A  painful  struggle  had  been  going  on  in  his  mind  ever  since 
his  meeting  with  Mrs.  Maplesou. 

He  could  not  endure,  for  a  moment,  the  thought  of  ever 
Laving  Gladys  know  anything  about  her  birth.  She  fully  be 
lieved  herself  to  be  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Huntress'  own  child,  and  he 
knew  it  would  lie  a  rude  shock  to  her  to  learn  that  she  was  not, 
and  to  be  told  the  facts  regarding  her  parentage,  and  he 
meant  to  prevent  it  if  he  could. 

"Colonel  Maplesou,"  he  said,  speaking  very  seriously,  "I 
hope  that  Gladys  will  never  learn  that  she  is  not  really  my 
child;  I  never  wish  her  to  receive  anything  from  Mrs.  Maple- 
son." 

The  colonel's  face  fell. 

He  knew  that  his  wife's  heart  was  yearning  after  her  child; 
at  the  same  time,  he  could  understand  and  appreciate  Mr. 
Huntress'  sensitiveness  upon  the  subject;  while,  too,  the 
young  girl  could  not  fail  to  be  painfully  shocked  upon  learn 
ing  the  sad,  even  cruel,  history  coimr-cted  with  her  birth. 

"I  think  it  would  be  a  great  disappointment  to  my  wife  not  to 
be  allowed  to  claim  the  relationship,"  he  replied,  thoughtfully. 


306  AN  UNEXPECTED  RETURN. 

"I  have  no  doubt  of  it,  sir,"  returned  Mr.  Huntress;  "but 
could  she  not  better  bear  the  disappointment  than  to  have  her 
child  made  unhappy,  after  all  these  years  of  content,  by  learning 
that  those  who  have  hitherto  occupied  the  place  of  father  and 
mother  are  nothing  to  her  by  the  ties  of  blood?  She  Las  not  a 
suspicion  of  the  truth,  and  I  am  confident  that  no  cue,  save 
Doctor  Turner  and  ourselves,  has  the  slightest  knowledge  of  it, 
so  that  it  never  need  be  revealed.  Mrs.  Mapleson  promised 
solemnly  never  to  claim  her,  under  any  circumstances;  she  gave 
her  unreserve-dly  to  us,  and  I  cannot  feel  willing  to  have  our  re 
lations  disturbed.  As  far  as  any  property  which  she  might  in 
herit  from  your  wife  is  concerned,  I  would  not  give  it  a  moment's 
consideration.  I  liava  an  abuadance,  and  Gladys  will  have  it  ail 
by  and  by.  I  did  intend  to  make  a  division  between  iny  two 
children,"  turning  with  a  smile  to  the  young  man  by  his  side, 
"but  since  Geoffrey  is  now  so  rich,  he  will  not  need  it.  How 
ever,  it  will  amount  to  about  the  same  thing  in  the  end,  as  they 
will  soon  have  all  things  in  common,  I  trust  " 

'  "Ah!  is  that  so?"  Colonel  Mapleson  inquired,  with  a  brilliant 
smile  and  a  nod  at  his  son. 

"I  hope  so,"  Geoffrey  answered;  "and  I,  too,  think  it  would 
be  wiser  to  keep  the  trutli  regarding  Gladys'  birth  still  a  secret. 
Its  revelation  can  do  no  one,  save  Mrs.  Mapleson,  the  least  pos 
sible  good,  and  I  doubt  if  even  she  would  not  regret  a  disclosure 
that  would  result  in  so  much  unhappiness  to  others." 

"I  believe  you  are  right,"  Colonel  Mapleson  said,  after  think 
ing  it  over  for  a  faw  moments.  "I  reckon  it  -would  be  the  better 
plan  to  allow  things  to  remain  just  as  they  are." 

"I  beg  you  will  not  consider  me  selfish  or  unfeeling  in  this 
matter,"  said  Mr.  Huntress,  earnestly,  but  greatly  relieved  by 
this  decision.  "I  sympathize  deeply  with  Mrs.  Mapleson,  but 
I  feel  that  she  could  not  suffer  a  tithe  of  what  my  wife  and 
daughter  would  endure  to  have  their  relations  disturbed,  cot  to 
mention  my  own  feelings  in  the  matter." 

"I  understand,"  his  host  responded,  heartily,  "and  I  know  it 
is  but  right  and  just  that  the  one  should  yield  in  order  that  the 
many  may  be  happy,  and  I  believe  that  my  wife  will  see  it  in 
the  same  light  when  she  comes  to  consider  it.  But,"  turning 
again  to  Geoffrey,  "when  is  this  wedding  trt  occur?" 

The  young  man  colored  and  glanced  at  Mr.  Huntress,  for  he 
hardly  knew  what  to  say  in  reply  to  this. 

"Well,  I — the  day  is  not  set  yet.  I  was  anxious  to  have  my 
relations  witli  yourself  settled,  and — we 

It  was  an  unusual  occurrence  for  Geoffrey  Huntress  to  lose  his 
self-possession  under  any  circumstances;  but  just  then  he  felt 
himself  to  be  in  a  very  painful  position,  for  every  moment  he 
shrank  more  and  more  from  revealing  his  half-brother's  wretched 
plot,  and  he  was  greatly  relieved  by  a  little  stir  in  the  hall  at  that 
moment,  which  attracted  Colonel  Mapleson 's  attention  from  him. 


AN  UNEXPECTED  RETURN.  307 

The  next  instant  the  library  door  was  flnng  open,  ami  Everet, 
himself,  pale  and  travel-stained,  stood  before  the  astonished 
group. 

"Ha!"  he  cried,  catching  sight  of  Geoffrey.  "So  you  have 
stolen  a  march  on  me!  trying,  I  suppo.se,  to  browbeat  the  gover 
nor  into  confessing  that  romantic  liaison  of  his  youth." 

"•Evc.ret !  "  exclaimed  his  father,  turning  sternly  upon  him,  an 
angry  flush  mounting  to  his  brow,  at  this  rude  intrusion;  -'what 
do  you  mean  by  rushing  in  here  like  this,  addressing  my  guesta 
in  such  an  abrupt  way,  not  to  mention  your  exceedingly  dibre- 
pectful  language  regarding  myself?" 

"Your  guests  !  Why  don't  you  present  them  to  me,  or  are  yon 
a  trifle  delicate  about  introducing  Annie  Dale's  son  tome?"  re 
torted  the  young  man,  in  a  nervous,  unnatural  manner. 

"Silence,  sir!"  thundered  Colonel  Mapleson,  looking  perfectly 
aghast  at  this  strange  behavior  on  the  part  of  his  usually  court 
eous  son.  "What  do  you  know  of  Annie  Dale?"  he  continued; 
"and  why  do  you  speak  of  this  young  man  in  that  sneering  way?" 

"I  know  a  great  deal  about  Annie  Dale  and  the  suspicious 
life  she  led  in  a  certain  mining  district  for  a  year,"  Everet  re 
torted,  with  reckless  scorn. 

He  had  been  wrought  to  the  highest  pitch  of  angry  excite 
ment  by  finding  Geoffrey  and  Mr.  Huntress  there  before  him. 

"I  know,"  he  went  on,  ''how  she  was  enticed  away  by  the 
promise  of  a  marriage  which  never  took  place,  and  how  she 
afterward  died — doubtless  of  a  broken  heart — leaving  a  name 
less  brat  to  inherit  her  shame." 

"Everet!  you  have  suddenly  taken  leava  of  your  senses!  I 
believe  you  <rre  in  the  delirium  of  fever,"  returned  his  father, 
regarding  his  now  flushed  face  and  glittering  eyes  with  alarm. 
"But  have  a  care  over  your  words.  How  on  earth  you  have  be 
come  possessed  of  such  strange  notions  is  more  than  I  can  ac 
count  for." 

"I  can  easily  enlighten  you.  I  have  a  couple  of  letters  in  mr 
possession  that  were  written  by  Annie  Dale's  lover,  which  will 
prove  all  that  I  have  hinted  at;  and  I  found  a  very  pretty 
rinj?,  too,  last  summer,  during  my  travels — not  a  weddinq-riitr/, 
either,  mind  you.  I  doubt  if  she  evrr  had  that — which  was 
lost,  on  the  very  spot  where  she  had  lived  and  died." 

He  drew  both  letters  and  ring  from  one  of  his  pockets,  as  he 
spoke,  and  flung  thorn  upon  the  table,  before  his  father. 

Colonel  Maplpson  recognized  them  at  once,  while  he  was 
amazed  by  the  fact  of  thoir  being  in  the  possession  of  his  son. 
One  of  the  letters  he  remembered  losing  after  a  visit  to  the  cot 
tage  where  his  Annie  had  once  lived,  and  lie  Imd  been  greatly 
disturbed  over  the  fact;  but  the  other,  and  the  ring — which 
his  dear  wife  had  lost  one  night  while  sitting  on  the  porch  in 
their  mountain  home — he  could  not  understand  how  he  came 
bv  them. 


808  PEA  CE  A  T  LAST. 

"You  found  that  ring?"  he  asked,  amazed. 

"Yes.  I  visited  a  certain  cottage  among  the  mountains  of 
New  Mexico  last  summer,  and  while  standing  upon  one  of  the 
Bteps  leading  up  to  the  door  it  gave  way,  and  underneath  I 
found  this  ring." 

"Ah!  we  never  thought  of  looking  under  the  step,"  said  the 
colonel,  musingly.  "It  was  a  little  loose  for  her  finger  just 
then,  and,  slipping  off,  rolled  away  out  of  sight,  and  we  thought 
it  very  strange  that  we  could  not 'find  it.  Yes,"  he  continued, 
taking  it  up  and  regarding  it  tenderly,  "Annie  Dale  never  had 
her  engagement- ring  until  the  day  of  her  marriage,  when  this 
was  put  on  her  finger  as  a  guard  to  Iter  wedding- ring!  Annie 
Dale  was  my  loved  and  honored  wife,  Everet,  and  Geoffrey,  my 
BOU  and  hers,"  indicating  the  young  man  by  a  motion  of  his 
hand,  "will  show  you  the  certificate  of  our  marriage,  and  the 
ring  with  which  she  was  wed!" 

"Your  wife!  Annie  Dale  your  wife!"  Everet  repeated,  start 
ing  back,  amazed,  all  his  color  fading  again  at  those  woids,  and 
shocked  into  more  respectful  speech  by  the  unexpected  ac 
knowledgment. 


CHAPTER  XLVIII. 

PEACE  AT  LAST. 

"Yes,  Annie  Dale  was  my  wife!" 

Everet  bent  a  sullen  look  upon  Geoffrey. 

"Then  lie  is  not  a " 

An  imperative  gesture  from  his  father  silenced  the  obnoxious 
Word  that  trembled  on  his  lips. 

"Geoffrey  Huntress,  as  he  has  hitherto  been  known,"  he  said, 
"is  my  son,  honorably  entitled  to  my  name,  and  an  equal  share 
•with  yourself  of  all  I  possess — a  son  whom  I  long  mourned  as 
dead,  but  whom  I  have  most  gladly  welcomed  to  my  heart  and 
Lome  this  night,  upon  learning  who  he  was." 

"Would  you  have  done  so  had  you  not  been  forced  to  it?" 
Evevet  rudely  demanded. 

"Everet,  you  are  very  disrespectful  to-night,"  returned  his 
father,  with  a  frown,  "I  cannot  understand  why  yon  should 
manifest  such  a  spirit  of  hostility.  But  we  will  not  talk  more 
of  this  now;  yon  shall  have  the  details  of  the  story  of  my  early 
life  later.  I  trust,  however,  that  your  sense  of  what  is  right  and 
just  will  prompt  you  to  some  acknowledgment  for  your  dis 
courtesy  toward  your  brother." 

"My  brother!"  retorted  Everet,  aroused  afresh  at  the  word; 
"he  has  been  nothing  but  a  stumbling-block  in  my  path  ever 
since  I  first  saw  him;  he  humiliated  me  before  friends  in  a  way 
that  I  have  never  forgiven;  he  thwarted  me  in  my  hopes  at 
college  and  in  many  plans — all  but  the  last  one,"  he  concluded, 


PEA CE  AT  LAST.  309 

with  a  taunting  laugh,  turning  defiantly  toward   Geoffrey,  who 
Was  regarding  him  with  move  of  sorrow  than  of  anger. 

"What  do  you  mean,  my  son?"  demanded  his  father,  who  saw 
that  something  was  very  wrong  between  them,  and  was  almost 
in  despair  over  his  inexplicable  conduct. 

"Has  he  not  told  you  how  I  cheated  him  out  of  his  wife?" 
Everet  asked,  supposing,  of  course,  that  that  wretfched  story 
had  been  rehearsed. 

"Cheated  him  out  of  his  wife!"  repeated  Colonel  Mapleson, 
growing  pale,  and  glancing  apprehensively  from  one  to  the 
other. 

His  son  gave  vent  to  a  short,  nervous  laugh,  but  feeling  con 
siderably  crest-fallen  at  having  so  recklessly  betrayed  himself, 
since  he  saw  that  nothing  had  been  said  about  his  miserable 
plot. 

Mr.  Huntress  here  interposed,  seeing  that  the  truth  must 
come  out,  and  explained  in  a  few  brief  sentences  what  had 
happened. 

Colonel  Mapleson  sank  back  white  and  nervous,  as  he  listened, 
realizing,  almost  at  the  outset,  the  terrible  thing  which  his  son 
hau  so  nearly  accomplished. 

"Do  you  know  what  you  have  done,  Everet  Mapleson?*'  he 
saitl,  in  a  solemn,  impressive  tone,  when  his  visitor  concluded, 
and  the  young  man  was  startled  and  awed  in  spite  of  his 
bravado.  "You  have  been  upon  the  brink  of  a  fearful  precipice; 
yon  have  very  nearly  committed  a  dreadful  crime,  for  which  I 
could  never  have  forgiven  you,  for  which  you  would  never  have 
forgiven  yourself;  the  girl  whom  you  have  sought  to  make  your 
wife  is  your  sister." 

The  young  man  grew  pale,  but  more  at  his  father's  tone  than 
from  any  conviction  of  the  truth  of  his  statement.  But  he 
rallied  after  a  moment. 

"What  staff  are  you  telling  me?"  he  retorted,  contemptuously. 

"It  is  no  'stuff;'  it  is  sternest  truth;  Gladys  Huntress  is  an 
ado />(ed  daughter," 

"Ha!"  and  now  Everet  Mapleson  seemed  suddenly  galvanized. 
"Did  Annie  Dale  have  another  child?"  he  demanded,  with  hue- 
less  lips. 

"No;  but  she  is  your  mother's  child,  by  a  former  marriage." 

"Great  Heaven!" 

There  was  no  defiance  or  recklessness  in  his  manner  now.  He 
Bank  breathless  upon  a  chair,  a  horrified  look  upon  his  face,  a 
shiver  shaking  him  from  head  to  foot,  perspiration  starting  from 
every  pore. 

"My  mother's  child!  Impossible!  Who  told  you?"  he  ques 
tioned,  hoarsely. 

"Your  mother  herself  J  She  was  unexpectedly  brought  face 
to  face  with  Mr.  Huntress  to-night;  she  recognized  him  and 
fainted.  Upon  recovering  she  confessed  to  a  former  marriage, 


310  PEACE  AT  LAST. 

and  said,  in  order  to  conceal  the  fact,  she  had  been  obliged  to 
give  away  her  child — that  Mr.  Huntress  was  the  ruaii  who 
adopted  her." 

Colonel  Mapleson  then  went  on  to  explain  more  at  length 
something  of  the  occurrences  of  the  eveuiug,  but  he  was  inter 
rupted  in  the  midst  of  his  recital  by  Everefc  throwing  himseJl 
prostrate  upon  the  floor,  while  a  heart-rending  groau  burst  from 
him  as  he  fell. 

When  they  raised  him  he  was  unconscious,  and  a  small  stream 
of  blood  was  trickling  from  his  mouth. 

He  was  carried  at  once  to  his  room,  a  servant  was  immediately 
dispatched  for  a  doctor,  while  his  anxious  friends  used  what 
remedies  there  weie  at  hand  for  his  relief. 

When  the  physician  arrived  he  said  his  patient  had  evidently 
been  suffering  from  a  severe  cold  for  several  days,  and  that  this, 
with  weariness  of  body  and  a  sudden  shock  of  some  kind,  had 
brought  on  the  hemorrhage,  while  there  were  also  some  indica 
tions  of  a  brain  trouble,  and  a  severe  illness  would  doubtless 
follow. 

Mr.  Huntress  and  Geoffrey  proposed  going  away  early  the 
next  morning,  but  Colonel  Maplesou,  who  seemed  greatly  un 
nerved  by  the  excitement  of  the  previous  evening,  begged  them 
to  remain  for  a  few  days  at  least,  as  he  could  not  bear  to  give  up 
Geoffrey  again  so  soon  after  being  reunited  to  him. 

They  had  not  the  heart  to  leave  him  in  his  trouble  after  that, 
and  consented  to  remain  long  enough  to  learn  what  the  prospect 
of  Everet's  recovery  would  be- 
But  he  grew  steadily  worse,  and  raved  in  the  wildest  delirium, 
recognizing  no  one,  although  there  was  no  return  of  the  hemorr 
hage.  At  the  end  of  four  days  Mr.  Huntress  decided  that  he 
must  go  home,  but  Geoffrey  concluded  that  it  was  his  duty  to 
remain  with  his  father  until  the  crisis  in  Everet's  illness  should 
be  passed,  for  Colonel  Mapleson  seemed  to  lean  upon  and  to 
experience  much  comfort  from  hi§  presence. 

He  proved  of  the  greatest  assistance  in  .the  sick-room,  where 
he  attended  Everet  most  faithfully,  and  endeared  himself  to 
the  whole  household  by  his  gentleness  and  courteous  bearing. 

At  the  end  of  three  weeks  the  fever  turned,  and  Everft  was 
pronounced  out  of  danger  of  any  further  brain  trouble,  although 
it  would  be  a  long  time  before  he  would  fully  recover  from  the 
•weakness  of  his  lungs. 

Geoffrey  withdrew  himself  immediately  from  the  sick-room  as 
soon  as  the  patient  recovered  consciousness,  realizing  that  his 
presence  might  be  annoying  to  Everet,  and  retard  his  conva 
lescence;  although  he  remained  at  Vuo  de  1'Eau  for  another 
week,  at  the  earnest  request  of  both  Colonel  and  Mrs.  Maple- 
son. 

Then  he  felt  that  he  could  not  stay  longer  away  from  Gladys, 
and  he  returned  to  Brooklyn,  taking  with  him  the  knowledge 


PEACE  AT  LAST.  311 

of  bis  father's  firm  and  lasting  affection,  and  Mrs.  Maplesou's 
respect  and  friendship,  together  with  the  handsome  fortune 
•which  he  had  inherited  from  Robert  Dale,  and  which  Colonel 
Mapleson  had  transferred  to  him. 

It  had  been  agreed  by  all  parties  that  Gladys  should  never 
be  told  the  secret  of  her  parentage,  although  Mrs.  Mapleson 
had  wept  bitterly  when  she  consented  to  remain  all  her  life 
Unrecognised  by  the  child  for  whom  her  heart  yearned  inex 
pressibly. 

She  could  bnt  acknowledge,  however,  that  it  would  be  for 
her  daughter's  happiness,  and  she  was  willing  to  sacrifice  her 
own  feelings  to  secure  that. 

She  had  been  greatly  shocked  upon  learning  of  Everet's 
wretched  plot,  and  the  narrow  escape  he  had  had  from  com 
mitting  a  fearful  crime,  and  she  had  pleaded  with  Geoffrey, 
when  parting  with  him,  to  forgive  her  son  for  the  injury  he  had 
done  him,  saying  she  felt  sure  that  he  would  deeply  regret  it, 
when  he  fully  came  to  himself. 

Geoffrey  assured  her  of  his  full  and  free  pardon,  and  actually 
expressed  the  hope  that  he  and  his  half-brother  might  some 
time  come  to  regard  each  other,  at  least  with  a  friendly,  if  not 
•with  brotherly,  affection. 

His  return  was  a  very  joyous  one. 

Gladys  had  been  assured  by  her  father,  long  before  this,  that 
she  was  free;  that  no  tie  bound  her  to  Everet  Mapleson;  that 
the  events  which  had  occurred  upon  the  night  set  for  the  wed 
ding  had  been  simply  a  farce,  the  result  of  fraud  of  the  worst 
type,  which  rendered  the  ceremony  illegal. 

She  was  almost  like  her  old,  bright  self  when  Geoffrey  ar 
rived,  although  not  quite  so  strong  as  formerly,  for  she  had  suf 
fered  a  fearful  shock,  and  it  was  not  surprising  that  its  effects 
should  yet  be  visible. 

Only  a  few  days  after  Geoffrey's  return,  Mr.  Huntress' 
beloved  pastor  and  his  wife  were  invited  to  dine  with  the  fam 
ily,  and  later  in  the  evening,  when  the  servants  were  all  below 
— everything  having  been  confidentially  explained  to  the  rev 
erend  gentleman  previous  to  his  visit — Geoffrey  and  Gladys 
stood  up  in  the  drawing-room  and  were  quietly  made  one,  while 
only  those  who  were  acquainted  with  the  private  history  of  the 
young  couple  ever  knew  of  this  second  ceremony,  their  fashion 
able  friends  and  the  world  all  believing  that  the  real  marriage 
had  occurred  at  the  time  of  the  brilliant  wedding  before  de 
scribed. 

No  one  was  surprised  that  the  European  trip  was  postponed, 
until  warmer  weather.  "A  sea  voyage  in  the  dead  of  winter 
was  a  thing  to  bo  dreaded;  besides,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Hnntross  had 
finally  decided  to  brace  up  their  courage  and  go  with  them,  if 
they  would  wait  until  spring." 

They  sailed  about  the  middle  of  May,  and  had  an  unusually 


312  PEACE  AT  LAST. 

smooth  passage.  They  spent  a  whole  year  abroad — a  year  of 
delight,  and  such  as  few  experience  in  this  world,  and  then  re 
turned  to  Brooklyn,  where  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Geoffrey  Dale  Maplo- 
sou  set  up  their  own  establishment  on  Clinton  avenue,  not  a 
stone's  throw  from  their  former  home. 

The  change  in  Geoffrey's  name,  together  with  the  discovery 
of  his  parentage,  had  been  very  easily  explained,  and  then,  of 
course,  everybody  said  "they  al\vays  knew  that  he  and  Everet 
Mapleson  must  have  the  same  blood  in  their  veins;  but  it  was 
really  a  very  romantic  circumstance — Geoffrey  having  been  in 
jured  and  carried  off  by  his  nurse's  husband  in  a  tit  of  drunk 
enness,  and  never  discovering  his  parentage  until  now." 

The  next  fall,  after  the  young  couple's  return  from  Europe, 
Colonel  Maplesou  and  his  wile  paid  them  a  visit,  and  it  was 
noticeable  that  a  great  change  had  come  over  the  strangely- 
wedded  pair. 

The  stately  anil  soldierly  colonel  was  devotedly  attached  to 
his  beautiful  wife,  who  had  acquired  a  peculiar  gentleness  and 
sweetness,  in  place  of  her  former  imperious  manner,  which, 
made  her  tenfold  more  attractive.  It  was  evident,  too,  that  she 
wan  strongly  attached  to  her  noble  husband. 

When  she  was  presented  to  Gladys,  she  folded  her  closely  iu 
her  arms. 

"My  dear,"  she  said,  witli  a  thrill  of  tenderness  in  her  tones 
that  moved  the  young  wife  strangely,  "I  hope  we  shall  be  very 
good  friends,  for.  although  Gooffrey  is  not  my  own  son,  I  want 
to  regard  you  both  as  my  children!" 

Tears  sprang  into  Gladys'  eyes. 

She  lifted  her  face  and  kissed  the  lovely  one  bending  above 
her. 

"I  am  sure  I  shall  love  you  very,  very  dearly,"  she  said. 

And  she  did.  A  tender  friendship  was  begun  during  that 
visit,  which  grew  stronger  and  more  devoted  with  every  year, 
and  when,  at  length,  two  little  twin  girls  were  born  to  Gladys,  she 
named  one  Alice  and  the  other  Estelle. 

"For  our  two  mothers,"  she  said  to  Geoffrey,  with  a  fond 
smile. 

Colonel  Mapleson  was  very  proud  of  his  Annie's  boy,  but  his 
happiness  would  never  be  quite  complete,  he  said,  until  there 
could  be  perfect  harmony  between  his  two  sons.  Ho  hoped 
that  time  would  bring  even  that  to  pass,  for  Everet  had  shown 
great  remorse  over  the  deception  that  he  had  practiced  upon 
Gladys,  and  he  finally  made  an  humble,  though  manly,  confes 
sion  to  her,  and  entreated  her  pardon  for  the  injury  he  had 
done  her  and  her  husband. 

But  it  was  not  until  Geoffrey  was  called  to  the  death-bed  of 
his  father,  three  jrear;  after  his  marriage,  that  they  really  became 
friends. 

Tho  making  of  Colonel  Maplesou's  will  brought  it  about,  for 


PEACE  AT  LAST.  313 

he  consulted  his  sons  about  the  matter.  Geoffrey  refused  abso 
lutely  to  be  named  in  it,  except  simply  to  receive  an  affectionate 
remembrance  from  his  father,  and  this  attitude  excited  Everet's 
•wonder. 

"Why  do  you  do  this?"  he  asked,  coldly,  and  regarding  his 
brother  with  suspicion.  "You  are  my  father's  elder  son,  and 
entitled  to  half  of  his  fortune." 

"I  do  not  wish  it,  believe  me,"  Geoffrey  answered.  "1  have 
enough  as  it  is.  I  can  never  tell  you,"  he  added,  earnestly, 
"how  much  more  to  me  than  fortune,  or  any  other  inheritance, 
is  the  name  that  I  can  legally  claim  from  our  father.  Let  that 
be  my  share — indeed,  I  will  not  have  anything  else." 

Everet  stood,  thoughtful  aad  silent,  for  several  moments. 
Then,  with  an  evident  effort,  he  looked  up  in  Geoffrey's  face, 
and  said: 

'•I  know  that  you  might  have  att,  had  you  chosen  to  take  it, 
and  in  that  case  /would  have  been  a  beggar.  You  have  led  me 
to  believe — and  not  by  this  act  alone,  either — that  there  is  at 
least  one  truly  noble,  nuselh'sh  man  in  the  world.  If  you  do  not 
utterly  despise  me,  will  you  henceforth  recognize  me  as  a 
friend?" 

He  extended  his  hand  as  he  spoke,  but  it  shook  visibly,  and 
he  was  very  pale.  It  had  not  been  an  easy  thing  for  this  proud 
young  Southerner  to  make  such  a  confession  and  appeal. 

Geoffrey  grasped  it  warmly,  his  manly  face  all  aglow  with 
sincere  joy. 

"Not  only  my  'friend,'  Everet,  but,  my  brother,  in  name  and 
in  truth,"  lie  answered,  heartily;  and  thus  a  life-long  bond  was 
established  between  them,  which  strengthened  with  every  suc 
ceeding  year,  while  the  desire  of  Colonel  Mapleson's  heart 
•was  granted  him  ere  he  closed  his  eyes  upon  all  things 
earthly. 

A  little  later,  Ad  die  Loring,  who  during  all  this  time  had 
refused  many  nn  eager  suitor,  became  the  mistress  of  Vne  de 
1'Ean,  where  she  reigned  the  center  of  a  happy  and  peaceful 
household. 

She  often  visited  her  girlhood's  friend  at  the  North,  and  enter 
tained  her,  in  turn,  in  her  Southern  home,  where  the  elder  Mrs. 
Mapleson  was  supremely  content  in  the  presence  of  her  child 
and  grandchildren,  even  though  they  were  ignorant  that  no 
other  bond  save  that  of  mutual  love  and  sympathy  iiuited 
them. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Huntress  were  also  very  happy  in  their  chil 
dren,  and  lived  many  years  to  enjoy  them — years  which  brought 
with  them  an 

"Old  age  serene  and  bright, 
And  lovely  as  a  Lapland  nigLt." 

Mr.  Huntress  retired  from  active  business  s •>  >i   :,i"ti  r  his  r«- 


3 U  PEA CE  AT  'LAS T 

turn  from  Europe,  resigning  bis  place  in  the  firm  to  Geoffrey, 
who  developed  great  ability  as  a  business  man,  and  was  as  ener 
getic  and  industrious  as  if  he  had  his  fortune  still  to  make, 
instead  of  already  being  the  possessor  of  a  handsome  com 
petence. 

Gladys,  true  to  her  vow  upon  that  wedding-day,  which  had 
ended  so  sadly,  and  yet  which,  they  all  felt,  had  been  wisely 
overruled,  divided  her  time  between  the  duties  in  her  own  home 
and  the  work  of  lightening  the  burdens  of  others,  "reflecting 
some  of  the  happiness  of  her  own  life  upon  those  less  favored;" 
thus  laying  up  treasures  for  herself  more  precious  and  lasting 
than  either  silver  or  gold. 

"Who  soweth  good  seed  shall  surely  reap; 
The  year  groweth  rich  as  it  groweth  old, 
And  life's  latest  sands  are  its  sands  of  gold." 

[THE  END.] 


